


How Tantor and Tarzan Became Friends

by nwhepcat



Series: Tantorverse [1]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, ancient gods, demolition!Xander, magic healing dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-19
Updated: 2009-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 52,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ill Met in Home Depot. In the wake of the destruction of Wolfram & Hart, Xander runs into a diminished supernatural being with an enormous sense of entitlement -- and it all seems familiar somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Tantor and Tarzan Became Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all my LJ readers of the Dickens-style saga. Spoilers for all of Buffy and Angel. This takes place in the Demolition!Xander AU future, but it doesn't coexist with the "Song About a Ramblin' Man" Demolition!Xander timeline. Warnings: some character deaths, some canon, some left to the imagination as to whether it happened, some resurrections. Disclaimer: Not my characters. ::checks again:: Nope, still not mine.

Even though it's L.A., there's something about the blue-haired leather chick marching up his aisle that makes Xander flick her a second glance. Not that he hasn't seen weirder (it's L.A.), but not in Home Depot. Even if it is after midnight.

 

 

There's something about the way her head moves as she scans the shelves that reminds him of some weird mechanical bird.

 

 

As she gets closer, he quits sneaking looks and pretends to return his attention to the bins of nuts and bolts in front of him. Until she steams right up to him.

 

 

"I require assistance."

 

 

"Um ... sure. I don't work here, but I spend enough time in Home Depots that I know my way around." There's no urgent errand that's brought him here. He always comes before a job. Thinking about building somehow organizes his thoughts in approaching the problems of bringing down a building. Though in this case it's not a building, but the shattered shell of a high-rise. It's his first job of this kind, so he'll mainly listen and learn as Henri inspects the rubble and determines where the charges will go. "Just for the record, I have absolutely no expertise about rope. What are you looking for?"

 

 

"I require bandages. Gauze. Unguents."

 

 

Unguents? Who the hell says unguents? Not even Giles. "Ah. Well, this is Home Depot." She stares at him with her huge, unsettling eyes. Like one of those freaky paintings of children that were a thing in the 70s. His mom had hung one in his room until he was old enough to take it down. "Building supplies, pretty much."

 

 

This apparently isn't a very satisfactory answer.

 

 

"These vast, ugly temples with bright, terrible light -- they contain all manner of goods. I have seen this."

 

 

Temple. Ooooooo-kay. "It depends which vast, ugly temple you're talking about. This one's dedicated to the god of home repair and renovation. Safeway's for the god of food and small household items. Wal-mart honors the god of cheap--"

 

 

Her arm _blurs_ as it shoots toward him, and the next thing he knows he's on the concrete floor, bolts and wingnuts (how appropriate) raining down on him. His lungs have completely run out of air, and it takes him an extremely long time to remember how to gasp.

 

 

"You will not make light of the gods. It is obscene to think that you may speak to me at all."

 

 

***

 

 

Xander regains his breath, at least what he can get in short sips. "I'm seeing that. The error of speaking." He gets to his feet, careful to place himself well out of her reach. "My apologies." Normally he'd pick up the spilled hardware instead of leaving it for the staff, but this is one of those times when hauling ass is the better part of valor.

 

 

"Wait. You have not provided me with the items I seek. Time --" She pauses for a heartbeat, her oddly impassive face taking on an expression that seems pained. "Time grows short."

 

 

"Mine too, so I get your problem. The nice man at the counter can probably tell you where the Walgreen's is. If you ask nice." Gliding his hand along the shelf, he backs away. Keeping Blue Keane-painting Chick in his sight seems like a wise move. He wonders what she is. Wonders if Giles knows.

 

 

"You said you would assist me. You have not done so."

 

 

Along with the comic-book heroine tight leather outfit, she's got a serious case of entitlement. Not that Xander hasn't had plenty of practice dealing with that. "That was before you threw me across the aisle. Seriously. Walgreen's will be open, and there's bound to be one close by." No matter where he goes, he's noticed big box stores seem to gather in packs.

 

 

"Wesley is dying." Again, the masklike quality of her face wavers, and her low voice drops even more.

 

 

He's not sure why, but that gives him pause. "If someone's dying, he needs a hospital, pretty much right now."

 

 

"There is nothing the physicians of this world can do. He is mortally wounded."

 

 

"Well then, gauze really isn't going to help much. I'm sorry."

 

 

She cocks her head, birdlike. "It will buy some small amount of time. I placed him in temporal stasis, but I cannot sustain it long. I must save the bulk of my energies for healing him."

 

 

"...Sure. I wish you luck with that."

 

 

"You will accompany me. I realize I require help to save him, and the others -- the others are dead. He is human. You cannot leave another of your kind to die without using every resource you have. I have learned this about humans. Insignificant and filthy as you are, your kind is fierce in this way."

 

 

Who have _you_ been hanging out with, he wonders.

 

 

"You will accompany me," she says again. "You will assist me."

 

 

The funny thing is, as wrong as she is about humans, she's right about Xander. "Okay," he tells her.

 

 

***

 

 

As soon as he agrees, Xander wonders if he's completely lost his mind. Or maybe he's utterly bored with his relatively nonsupernatural life. Or bored with living at all. This can't be smart.

 

 

Well, he's learned one thing since he last left a hardware store in the company of a demon chick -- he speed dials Henri as they cross the parking lot, even though Xander knows he'll be asleep, his phone turned off. "Henri," he says after the beep, "just wanted to let you know I'm doing my usual Home Depot pilgrimmage. I've met someone here who's had a little trouble, and I'm giving her a hand. We're going to Walgreen's. I'll let you know the next stop after that. See you bright and early tomorrow." He snaps the phone shut.

 

 

"Who is this you communicate with?" Smurfette asks.

 

 

"My boss. I'm in L.A. on business, and we have an early meeting tomorrow."

 

 

"He has no need to know of my affairs or my whereabouts."

 

 

"_I_ have need of him knowing _my_ whereabouts," Xander states matter-of-factly. "That's the deal, if you want me to help."

 

 

She says nothing, but gives off great waves of disgruntlement. As they reach Xander's rental, a weird impulse prompts him to open the passenger door for her. Once he's settled in behind the wheel, he asks, "What's it to you if this guy lives or dies? You're not human. Why do you care?"

 

 

He's making the turn into Walgreen's by the time she answers. "I do not know," she says in the low voice she used before. "But it is important that he survive."

 

 

He cuts the engine and releases the seatbelt, looking over at her. She doesn't look good. Not that he knows how a blue-haired, Keene-eyed demon thing is supposed to look in the peak of health. "You want to wait here while I get what you need?"

 

 

That earns him a death-ray glare accompanied, no doubt, by further thoughts about the insignificance and filthiness of humanity in general and Xander in particular. It doesn't faze him; he got that same look plenty from Cordelia.

 

 

She's got a point about the bright, terrible light in these places. It shows that there's more blue to her than just her hair. The skin by her hairline has a blue tinge as well, and her lips are definitely a blueberryish shade. And those utterly freaky eyes, dead as doll eyes, are just as blue.

 

 

"So what is it we're trying to cure here? Gunshot?" He has visions of some poor bastard's brains splattered on a wall somewhere, not a comforting thought when Indigo Demon Girl is expecting Xander to help make it all better.

 

 

"Wesley was felled by a blade."

 

 

"Sword?" Heads rolling like runaway cabbages: not much more curable than brainspray.

 

 

"A demon drove his dagger into Wesley's viscera. He has paid for this, along with his minions." Something's off in her insect-like movements, and she stumbles against a cardboard display of L'eggs panty hose. She ignores the rain of plastic eggs in her wake. "I grow weary of your questions. Find what I require, and make haste."

 

 

Xander bites back a snarky retort and heads for the _Wounds: Small, Large and Gaping_ aisle. He picks an assortment from the _Gaping_ collection, and grabs some likely antiseptics in large bottles. Not that he really expects to do more than call 911 when he sees what a hopeless wreckage their patient is.

 

 

She's marching toward the exit when Xander, trailing behind, says, "Whoa whoa whoa. We have to pay for this stuff."

 

 

Blue Thunder shoots him a look that makes it clear he's the biggest chump on record. "Very well. Conduct your business and be done."

 

 

Right. It's his credit card that gets to do the dirty work here. When he's finished, he joins his mantis-like princess (and doesn't _that_ bring back great memories), she says, "We must be quick. I cannot hold the stasis field much longer."

 

 

She sets off in a jerky gait toward his car, and he follows.

 

 

***

 

 

She directs him through the streets into one of the toniest parts of the city, all walls and gates and landscaping that screens everything from view. Until she tells him to stop at the drive with the flattened gates. Xander throws her a glance.

 

 

"Time was, I would have crushed you like an insect for your hesitation to do my bidding. Do not be so certain that time will not come again."

 

 

"Hey, listen, I'm highly biddable. Just double-checking." A piss-poor lie, but she's too busy concentrating on walking and keeping up the temporal stasis thing to smite him dead. As they approach the mansion on foot, Xander dials Henri again, reciting the address of this place to his voice mail. "If I don't show in the morning, send out the comandos, all right? But don't worry, I'll be there."

 

 

He slips the phone into his pocket as she leads him to the splintered front door. They walk over the biggest intact section as if it's the drawbridge over a moat.

 

 

The skin prickles at the back of his neck as they enter the vast entryway. He's not sure if they've entered her stasis field, but nothing is moving, sure as shit. Just him and the Blue Corn Tortilla Festival Queen. It's hard to tell with all the blood, but he doesn't think the bodies are human.

 

 

"These are the others?" he asks.

 

 

She doesn't condescend to answer.

 

 

"You said 'The others are dead.' This is who you meant?"

 

 

"These are vermin. A foul, creeping abscess on the skin of this world."

 

 

"Ah." This is beginning to ring bells, a whole tinkly little variety show asssortment of bells, and he feels like an idiot for not wondering sooner if this might be connected--

 

 

"Wesley is here."

 

 

There, sprawled on the expensive tile, is the first clearly human body he's seen here. A dark-haired man wearing a dark turtleneck that disguises just how much blood he's lost, though the tile beneath him gives an indication. His bloody hands have fallen away from the wound in his gut. Familiar somehow, but really really not. The stubble, jeans instead of a suit. No glasses.

 

 

Still, there's no question who's lying there, still as the not-human things out in the foyer.

 

 

"Holy shit," he murmurs. "Wes."

 

 

And there's no question that he's dead.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander kneels beside Wes's body, taking his wrist in his hand. He knows he won't get a pulse, but it will buy him a little time to think.

 

 

Blue Cheer doesn't join him, but stands over them. A moment later, Xander feels a wave of wooziness sweep over him, that feeling that comes just a split second before you realize an earthquake is in progress. At first you think you're ill, then you catch on to the reality -- that things that shouldn't move are moving.

 

 

It's not the ground beneath him, but time. That's the only explanation he can come up with. As soon as the weird feeling passes, Wes takes a rattling inward breath, and his fingers twitch almost imperceptibly.

 

 

Then Baby Blue is down on his level, but it looks more like falling on her knees than kneeling.

 

 

Xander opens his mouth to ask if she's all right, but before he can Wes croaks, "Fred."

 

 

"Shhhhh," the demon says.

 

 

"I'm still here," Wes continues, his voice dreamy, but tinged with surprise.

 

 

"So am I," says a sweet and girlish voice next to him.

 

 

Startled, Xander looks to his left, and there's a brown-haired girl in a sweet and girlish top where Blue-Haired Leather Chick was. Tears shimmer in her lashes.

 

 

"You're going to be all right." There's a twang to her voice that Xander can't identify. He's never been good with accents.

 

 

"You -- Illyria -- said --"

 

 

"Illyria was wrong," the girl says. "I realized that. I brought help."

 

 

Wes doesn't even look his way, but keeps his eyes on her. "It's very bad," he says softly.

 

 

"I am a god." Still the reedy voice of the girl, but with the steel of the blue-haired fairy mixed in. "I am diminished, but I am yet a god." She turns abruptly to Xander. "You. Maintain pressure on the wound. I will heal him." Her voice softens again. "Wes, darling, just close your eyes. Rest now."

 

 

"Fred," he murmurs again, then his eyes flutter closed.

 

 

Xander presses the heels of his hands against Wes's abdomen. He concentrates his vision there, and sees a pair of blue hands plunge past his, deep inside Wes. Wes gasps, though not another rattling sigh. Something jolts through Xander and then moves into Wes, and one more time Xander reels.

 

 

"Hey!" he protests. But that feeling passes too, so he keeps the pressure on until she nudges him aside. Remaining on his knees, he watches her seemingly move her hands inside him. After a moment, she withdraws them and the flesh appears to close in her wake.

 

 

Her hand smears red on the marble tile as she plants it to brace herself, but she's too spent. She crumples at Wes's side.

 

 

Great. Now what's he supposed to do? He's got a formerly dead man and a half-dead god in the middle of the International House Of Carnage. He can't -- won't -- take them to his hotel. He's got some rubble to see about blowing up, first thing in the morning. And fuck, he's tired.

 

 

And then there's Wes's voice, the accent that used to make Cordelia swoon. It sounds rough, but stronger than it had.

 

 

"I know you."

 

 

***

 

 

"Save your strength, Wes. We've got to get you to a hospital."

 

 

"I don't think that will be necessary." His voice is a barely a whisper, a rustle of one page against another in some ancient text on a long research night. "What about the others?"

 

 

Now it hits him who "the others" are. Angel.Some he's never seen, but Faith and Willow mentioned: Gunn. This girl Fred. This seems like a crap time to deliver bad news, so he defers it. "You'd have to ask Boo Berry about that."

 

 

"Vail," Wes says suddenly. "Where is he?" He tries to prop himself up, but Xander gently pushes him back.

 

 

"I don't know who you're talking about."

 

 

"Red-skinned demon. Sorcerer. I came to kill him, but he gutted me. If he's alive--"

 

 

"Vail has been annihilated," says the demonic sidekick. Any trace of girlishness has gone from her voice. She rises to her feet, still clearly weakened.

 

_Annihilated_ is a good word for it, if Vail is the robed guy Xander now notices sprawled some distance away. He _knew_ there'd be brainspray.

 

 

"Good," Wes says. There's a cold satisfaction in his voice that sounds nothing like the Wes Xander used to know.

 

 

"I wish to leave this place. It stinks of the charnel house."

 

 

"I thought you found the smell of death rather bracing, back in your day." Surprise: Wes has developed an edge.

 

 

"I grow weary of it," she says. She's not terribly conversant in snark.

 

 

"I concur," Xander says. "All for the hauling ass here. I mean it about the hospital."

 

 

"No. Take me home to my flat. Illyria too."

 

 

Illyria. So Blue Bunny has a name. "She is what she says she is?"

 

 

"An ancient god-king, yes. She is also, as she said, diminished."

 

 

"You are fortunate I could save you," she tells Wes.

 

 

"I appreciate how fortunate I am," he says. He gestures his readiness to be helped up, and Xander and Illyria get him to his feet. He sways briefly, but regains his equilibrium quickly.

 

 

Wes directs him to a decidedly less shmancy neighborhood.

 

 

As Xander pulls up to the curb, he says, "I'm just getting you inside, making sure you have everything you need. I have a job early tomorrow, and I have to be sharp."

 

 

"Running an errand for Mr. Giles?" Wes fumbles with the keys at the door to his building. "He's become quite the representative of the Council. When Fred was dying, he wouldn't lift a finger to save her."

 

 

"I wouldn't know about that. I live in Seattle. I have outside work." Still the bitterness in Wes's voice unsettles him. The thought that Giles had become just like Quentin Travers--

 

 

"He let her die in agony, because Angel took over Wolfram &amp; Hart."

 

 

"Wolfram &amp; Hart?" Xander yelps. Of course -- now he catches a distant glimmer of memory. Something had been said around that time, but the name had meant nothing to him then, and it hadn't rung a bell when he got this assignment.

 

 

"Yes, what of it?"

 

 

"I'm here to blow the place to the ground."

 

 

***

 

 

Wes blinks at this news. "Giles has gotten quite ambitious then."

 

 

"I said it's an outside job. I work in demolitions. The big-scale stuff -- implosions. The building's unstable, too dangerous to leave to slower means. My crew's bringing down what's left. We're taking care of the other site too." He takes in Wes's confusion. "Maybe you missed that. The Wolfram &amp; Hart building collapsed, and so did a major chunk of a couple of blocks in another part of town."

 

 

"The Black Thorn," Wes murmurs.

 

 

Xander shrugs. "The official story is gas leaks. Anyway, I'm meeting my team first thing in the morning. Which is approaching a helluva lot faster than I'd like. So now that you're installed in your own home, I'm gone."

 

 

"The other area. Can you tell me where it is?" It's written on his face, the fear of what's become of his friends.

 

 

Xander does not want to be in on this conversation. He's not the guy to bring the comfort over Angel's death. "My boss has the exact location. An old hotel."

 

 

Wes's eyes close for and he sags on the sofa. Only for a moment, then he squares his shoulders and looks toward Illyria. "Everyone was to meet at the alley. Everyone who survived their ... assignment."

 

 

"The green-skinned demon did not appear, and Angel did not seem to expect him," Illyria says. "Charles Gunn was there, though he was gravely wounded. He fought valiantly."

 

 

Dammit. Xander meant to be gone by the time this part came. He sees no way to extract himself now.

 

 

"I see," Wes says faintly. "And the others?"

 

 

"Angel killed many before he fell. Spike was a berserker. I did not see him fall, but I know he would not have willingly laid down his sword before the enemy was crushed."

 

 

"No survivors, then," Wes says. His voice has that stunned quality of earliest grief.

 

 

"I survived."

 

 

Xander breaks up the awkward moment after that. "You said Spike. That's impossible. He died -- I mean dusted -- in Sunnydale."

 

 

"Yes," Wesley says, but doesn't explain further.

 

 

"And?"

 

 

Wes shrugs. "It seems these days it's difficult to stay dead."

 

 

***

 

 

As he expected, Henri gives him twelve kinds of shit in the morning. "You look a little rough," he says over breakfast. "You had a crazy time with your damsel in distresss?"

 

 

"No no no no no and again I say no. We did not go there. And damsel is the last word in the English language I'd pin on this girl." _Girl_ doesn't really work either, but he hasn't got time to find the right word.

 

 

"You need to be sharp when you're working. Your life depends on it. Your crew's lives." This is just a general restatement of policy, not a chewing-out. Xander can tell from the clink of syrup container against Henri's plate, the soft thump of the pepper shaker as he settles it back on the tablecloth.

 

 

"I get that. I'm okay, I'm alert."

 

 

"Save the girls for after."

 

 

"I do. Seriously. Her boyfriend had gotten hurt in a fight. I helped her get him home. It took longer than I planned."

 

 

Henri's eyebrows rise. "Some neighborhood for a brawl."

 

 

Xander shrugs. "Money is no indicator of class."

 

 

"That's the truth."

 

 

To Xander's relief, Henri moves on to the morning's work. While Henri's got every right -- more than that, a responsibility -- to address his concerns before a job, Xander's a little weary of explaining himself. Last night it was Wes, giving him a sharp-eyed look and musing, "So, you broke with the others."

 

 

"I didn't break with anyone. I see them, I talk to them, I go out to Cleveland when I get a few days off. There is no breakage. I just have a job that suits me, and I suit it, which is based in Seattle."

 

 

"Blowing up buildings."

 

 

"Imploding them, to be precise. You watchers like precision."

 

 

"I haven't been a watcher for some time," Wes said softly.

 

 

Now, as the waitress drops the check at their table and takes their plates, Henri says, "Let's get a look at the high-rise."

 

 

The scene is different from the jobs Xander's been on, but Henri has worked this type before. There are emergency vehicles everywhere, local uniforms and National Guardsmen securing the scene. More uniforms with search-and-rescue dogs.

 

 

The back of Xander's neck prickles as they get out of the rental car. He looks over at Henri, who looks like he's sucking a lemon.

 

 

Henri doesn't have to say it, but he does. "This is a bad fucking place."

 

 

***

 

 

Henri consults with the suits and the uniforms on site, while Xander listens. The search-and-rescue people want more time to look for survivors. The dogs want nothing to do with the inside of this place. The fire marshal wants everyone to stay the hell out, Henri and crew included. The mayor wants the rubble reduced to tinier rubble, _now_.

 

_But is the mayor evil_, Xander wants to ask. It seems like an important piece of information. Is he looking to unleash whatever it is that's making the search dogs flatten themselves against the sidewalk? Is he on the other side, and hoping to put a cork in the place, Sunnydale style? Or is he completely clueless, just thinking about the danger presented by the precarious north wall, or maybe just about the prime real estate it's sitting on, real estate that deserves a chance at redevelopment?

 

 

"If you want this thing down," Henri says, "my associate and I are going to have to get inside. We can't just wish it down."

 

_Yes you can,_ Xander thinks. _But you really wouldn't want to be around for that._

 

 

"Don't you guys have robots that let you take a look around without putting yourselves at risk?" the fire marshal wants to know.

 

 

"A robot doesn't have the judgment to know a safe path from one that's going to set off a collapse. We do."

 

_You do_, Xander thinks. _Me, I'm liking the robot idea._ Every job he's been on until now, this stage has been a nice stroll through an empty building nobody wants anymore.

 

 

There's more wrangling, and phone calls between the mayor's people here on site and the mayor himself (_Ask him if he's evil_), and the upshot is, if it will get the Wolfram &amp; Hart building down faster, the mayor's good with Henri and Xander risking their asses. Henri unrolls the blueprints again, which he had time to study last night, and went over with Xander before breakfast.

 

 

One of the search and rescue guys comes over as Xander's fastening his hardhat. "Hey, if you're going in, I was wondering if I could get you to do something for me. Just lie down somewhere, next to a chunk of concrete or something. Let my dog find you. He needs to find something that's living."

 

 

"No survivors?" Though he knows this from the grim news reports on the hotel TV.

 

 

The search and rescue guy shakes his head. "Nothing but death. And I don't know what he's picking up from deeper inside, but he flat-out won't go. Never seen him act this way. He needs a little success." He shrugs. "Dogs get depressed too."

 

 

Xander flicks a look at Henri, who shrugs too. "There. By the Wolfram &amp; Hart sign. That's as stable as it gets."

 

 

The sign's broken in two on the stone steps, reading WOLF RAM &amp; HART, with a large piece of masonry nestled in the middle.

 

 

"Sure," Xander says. He goes to curl up behind the wolf.

 

 

He lies on the sun-warm step, awaiting rescue. What a strange life this is. He's not so sure he's chosen it. It chose him, and keeps on choosing him.

 

 

Then there's barking and the big German shepherd and rescuer come. Xander follows the rescuer's lead and heaps the dogs with praise, stroking his fur. As he rises from where he kneels, he spots a glint of blue hair.

 

 

Illyria is staring at him from behind the barricades, her head cocked, trying to puzzle him out.

 

 

***

 

 

"_Shit_," Xander thinks. He bends to scratch the rescue dog behind the ears. Maybe if he ignores Illyria, she'll content herself with standing with the worried family members and the lookie-loos held back by the barricades.

 

 

No. That was entirely too optimistic a hope. She strides toward a gap in the barricades, intent on barging her way through. The cop on the other side has different ideas. Illyria, not being big on the freewheeling exchange of ideas, raises her arm and the cop goes airborne.

 

 

"Shit," Xander says. "Excuse me."

 

 

A wall of police in riot gear swarm around her, guns raised, and the lookie loos give way. They might be over-curious and verging on tasteless, but they aren't crazy.

 

 

Xander, on the other hand....

 

 

He slowly approaches, hands plainly in view, unnoticed at first -- until Blue points and says, "I wish to speak with him." It is not a request. He finds himself at the wrong end of some shiny weaponry himself.

 

 

"Illyria," he says, as evenly as possible. "This is really not a good place to be."

 

 

"You a friend of hers?" one of the cops asks.

 

 

"I wouldn't go that far," Xander responds. He'd _like_ to go far, just now. But in the other direction. "We met once."

 

 

"I would speak with him now. You will leave us."

 

 

"She has entitlement issues," Xander says.

 

 

"I get that," says the cop who seems to be the spokesman. The guns don't waver.

 

 

"Illyria, they won't leave. They have to guard this place. It's dangerous."

 

 

"Vile and loathsome it may be, but it does not pose a threat to me," she says. "Leave us."

 

 

"They're not going anywhere," Xander repeats. Jesus, this one is thicker than Glory. "And I have to get back to work. Why don't you tell me what you came to say and then get back to Wes."

 

 

Illyria flicks a look around her, her attention landing on the spokesman cop for a heartbeat before dismissing him. "They are as the slime that once covered the earth. It matters not if they hear."

 

 

"That's the spirit. I've only got a minute. What's the problem?"

 

 

She settles her disquieting gaze back on Xander. "I believe Wesley wishes I had not survived."

 

_Oh fuck me_, Xander thinks. If there's anything more dangerous than being a demon-chick magnet, it's bound to be giving advice for the lovelorn to a crazy freaking _god_.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander takes a measured breath. "Wes is grieving right now. Which means almost nothing he says or does has the slightest thing to do with you. If you want to help him, stick around, ride it out, but don't demand too much." _That's_ a laugh riot, but it's what he wanted and what he largely got, and he's not going to edit his advice to make her happy. Not on this.

 

 

Illyria seems oblivious to the guns still pointed at them. "He has grieved since I have known him."

 

 

"It takes time. He can't rush it, and you certainly can't. I have to go, Illyria. I'm working here." He hopes the cops will let him go, anyway.

 

 

"The stench of grief lingers around you as well."

 

 

"Yeah, thanks for noticing. Welcome to the human condition. You'll whiff that a lot." Xander turns his attention to the spokesman cop. "Can I go? I'm with the demolitions team."

 

 

"You have some kind of influence with her."

 

 

"I'd say that's an extreme overstatement."

 

 

"What the hell is this?" It's Henri, keeping a respectable distance. "Why do you have guns pointed at one of my men?"

 

 

The spokesman gives an order and the cops lower the guns pointed at Xander. "He seemed to be with her." Illyria still stands at the business end of a firing squad's worth of gun barrels.

 

 

The cop she sent flying has managed to regain his feet, and gruffly brushes off his colleagues asking if he's all right. Xander can read that: in the language of the male, it means he's in some pain but his pride is smashed worse.

 

 

Xander addresses the spokesman. "Look, I realize she's in your way here. What if she promises to leave the site immediately? Can she go?"

 

 

"She can't attack an officer and waltz out of here like nothing happened."

 

 

The officer in question, however, seems to be sizing Illyria up, figuring their chances of subduing her. "What attack? I tripped on my own shoelace."

 

 

"Davis--"

 

 

"Why, how did it look? I tripped, I _think_ she put a hand up to steady me."

 

 

The guy in charge glares at Davis, then at Xander. He flicks a quick look at Illyria, apparently realizing how little effect a glare would have on her. He settles a stony gaze back on Xander. "Get her out of here." At his signal the guns lower.

 

 

"Illyria, this is your golden opportunity," Xander says. "Act now, and these gentlemen will give you a free pass out of here."

 

 

Illyria, of course, scowls. "They are as buzzing gnats. They concern me not."

 

 

Henri, who's been simmering a while, finally boils over. "Lady, you're wasting everyone's--"

 

 

Xander holds up a hand. He hates to do this to him, but Wes is going to have to take one for the team. "Illyria, I think maybe it would be a good time to check on Wes. Company would do him good."

 

 

"Wesley says to leave him alone." Her voice is low, tense.

 

 

"Yes, but be available. It's a balancing act, helping out someone who's grieving. He might need you. Give him room to breathe, but stick around." Talk about balancing acts. Xandro the Amazing Tightrope Walker heeling-and-toeing the high wire, while an audience of cops -- and let's not forget Henri -- watches.

 

 

She gives him a full dose of her freaky stare before she says. "I will go to him." She doesn't wait around for his endorsement of the idea, just turns and stalks away.

 

 

There's a collective release of breath. Henri turns to Xander. "Where in the hell did you find -- wait. Don't tell me _that_ was your damsel in distress."

 

 

"Your words, not mine."

 

 

He watches Illyria go, hair glinting blue as a gun barrel in the morning sun.

 

 

***

 

 

Shaking his head, Xander accompanies Henri back to his command post.

 

 

"Ever think you missed your calling?" Henri asked.

 

_Damn_, he wants to say. _I thought I just found my calling._ "I'm sorry, Henri. It won't happen again." _Why did he say that? He can't guarantee that. Knowing the way his life works, it could happen on a regular basis._

 

 

"No no no, I don't mean it that way. You were good, you were brilliant. You could be one of those kidnap and ransom negotiators."

 

 

"Yeah, well, I think I'd rather walk into a teetering pile of rubble than try anything like that again."

 

 

Henri swats the top of Xander's hardhat. "Well, sonny boy, you're about to get your wish."

 

 

***

 

 

"Gas leak my ass," Henri mutters.

 

 

They're carefully picking their way along the path they'd determined from looking at the blueprints, though the damage up ahead will probably make that course impossible. They keep their voices low, and hope no vibrations from a passing truck (much less an earthquake) bring the place down on top of them.

 

 

"You think the rumors are right?"

 

 

"Terrorists? No. Beats me what, though. I've never seen this before."

 

 

Xander has. Your basic hell on earth scenario, with a side of apocalyptic battle. It's a wonder this much still stands.

 

 

"Hold up." Xander halts, listening. It's faint, but there. Whimpering. "I think I hear something. Wait here." Following the sound, scouring the dark with his flashlight, he catches a glint of gold hair, and the dark glisten of a lot of blood.

 

 

As quickly as he can, he picks his way carefully through the debris. "Can you hear me? It's all right, I've found you. We'll get you out of here, get you some help."

 

 

"They're gone."

 

 

He kneels beside the broken form. "Stay with me, okay? We'll get you out." He's amazed anyone's even alive.

 

 

Gently he pushes the spill of hair away from the woman's face. _That's impossible_. "Harmony? Harmony Kendall?"

 

 

She just moans in response. Her face flickers between her human and vamp faces, like some movie special effect. "Would you believe he ditched me?" she murmurs. "So not fair."

 

_What the hell does she have to do with this?_

 

 

"I gave him Angel,and he still -- So scared. There are things, trying to get out of their cages. Is it night? Can't go till it's night."

 

 

"Shhhh. You can go now." No shortage of splintered timber around here. Xander grabs a piece and punches it through Harmony's heart.

 

 

"Hey!" she yelps in protest, then she's dust.

 

 

"Xander?" Henri calls. "Where are you?"

 

 

He rises, shines his flashlight toward Henri's voice to let him know where he is. "Stay there. I'm on my way."

 

 

"Did you find someone?"

 

 

"No. I thought I heard crying." He picks his way back toward Henri. "It was just water dripping. Eeriest fucking thing I ever heard."

 

 

***

 

 

Once they finish the walk-through, Henri gets the whole crew together to talk about placement of the explosives. There's a tension in the air that's usually absent from these meetings -- not friction within the team, but a general attentiveness and awareness that the high rise and the hotel aren't normal jobs where all the factors can be controlled.

 

 

All they can work with is what's left, and hope to place the explosives for a controlled collapse before each place caves in on its own. The kind of operation that usually takes weeks or months of preparation has to be done in two to three days.

 

 

There's tension of another kind, too. The lookie-loos at both sites have been cornering the teams as they arrive and depart, telling them about things they've heard about or claim they've seen.

 

 

"Crazy bullshit," says Henri's son Thierry, who led the team at the hotel site. "But it still creeps me the fuck out."

 

 

The hotel, as it turns out, was a genteel old wreck, the sort of place ripe for a controlled demolition if a developer had gotten his hands on it. Instead it had been rented out, until recently occupied by a detective agency.

 

 

"What if we lay out everything we've heard," Xander suggests. "Weird as it all is, it might have some basis in something real, give us a little more to go on."

 

 

"Thing is," Henri says, "how do we translate the freakshow shit into useful information? I'm not saying the idea doesn't have merit; if this was a normal job I'd even sit through an interpretive dance if it would lead to some critical information. There just isn't time."

 

 

An idea shimmers in the back of Xander's mind. It's the last thing he wants to suggest, since he just shook himself free of Illyria. But the idea of going into these places blind--

 

 

"Listen," he says. "I know a guy. He worked at Wolfram &amp; Hart the last few months, on a high enough level that he might know what's at the heart of these stories. What if I could get him here?"

 

 

"Do it in the next half-hour, and you're on."

 

 

***

 

 

"No," Wes says.

 

 

Xander's not even sure Wes knows who it is on the phone. Xander identifies himself, of course, and asks if Wes would give him some information about Wolfram &amp; Hart. That wins him the instant scratch-off prize of a fast "no" and a dial tone.

 

 

Xander flips his cell closed. "I know where he lives. I'll get him; I think this is important."

 

 

Henri looks like he's about to protest, but he bites it back. "Half an hour."

 

 

Xander nods and heads out, breaking into a sprint for the rental car as soon as he reaches the lobby. Half an hour -- it'll take a miracle, and with his luck it's more likely it'll take longer just to make it to Wes's in the first place. One bad traffic snarl is all it would take.

 

 

Or he might eat up half an hour pounding on Wes's door. "I know you're in there, Wes," he says. "Just give me five minutes, it's important."

 

 

Xander's learned a lot in the past year about how a relatively small amount of force applied to the exact right spots can bring a fairly solid structure down. He's thinking of applying this principle to Wes's door via the sole of his boot when he hears footsteps.

 

 

The door opens a crack. It's apparent just from this limited view that Wes has spent the whole of his bonus life so far drinking. "Five minutes," he says, making no move to admit Xander to his apartment.

 

 

Xander shoulders the door open, grabbing Wes by the scruff of the neck. "Let's walk and talk, as they say." He yanks the door closed and frog-marches Wes down the hallway to the building entrance.

 

 

There's only the slightest trace of the pompous twit Xander remembers in Wes's protests. Xander ignores them just as he ignored pretty much all of Wes's utterances back in Sunnydale. Once they're outside he plucks the half-full glass from Wes's hand and tosses it into the bushes.

 

 

"Listen to me," he says. "Like I said, my team is here to bring the rest of the Wolfram &amp; Hart building down safely. That hotel too. Friends of mine are about to risk their lives planting charges. We've all been hearing things. Crazy talk, is what it sounds like to them, but you and I know there's plenty in this world that's crazy as shit. If there's anything my team should know about, you're gonna tell them."

 

 

He unlocks the rental and sticks Wes in the back, where the child safety locks will prevent him from leaping out as Xander rounds the car and gets in behind the wheel. He casts a quick glance at the building, but there's no sign of Illyria. "Blue didn't come back?"

 

 

"She did. The effort of bringing me back, along with whatever wounds she suffered in battle, took quite a toll. She's sleeping."

 

 

"I could use some of that temporal stasis mojo she's got," Xander says. "It would be nice to get my expert sobered up -- at least coffee'd up -- along with a shave and shower, and dear god, Wes, are you still wearing the same shirt you died in?"

 

 

"I wasn't planning an outing just yet."

 

 

"I didn't realize blood-stiffened natural fibers were the rage in loungewear these days. I should watch more morning TV." Xander guns the engine as the traffic signal turns yellow. "Tell me about Wolfram &amp; Hart. Harmony said there are 'things in cages.'"

 

 

"Harmony survived?" His tone doesn't lead Xander to believe he's the president of her fan club.

 

 

"Briefly. Is that true?"

 

 

"The firm was involved in a lot of things. Magic. Scientific experimentation. I dare say there are creatures resulting from both that you wouldn't want to meet."

 

 

"How about blowing them to kingdom come? Does that work for you?"

 

 

"That's the $64,000 question, isn't it?"

 

 

***

 

 

"Is there a hellmouth under this place?" Xander chances a quick look in the rearview mirror. It makes him wonder if bringing Wes in is a good idea at all. Seems like he was working on a pretty good case of alcohol poisoning; the smell of booze wafts from his pores. He's stubbled and smeared with blood, and his expression is beyond bleak. It's going to look like Xander got panicked about the half-hour deadline and grabbed the first panhandler he could find to fill in.

 

 

Then when Wes opens his mouth and the crazy pours out in front of Henri and the others....

 

 

Wes gazes out the window. "Not a hellmouth, no. A hellmouth, I believe, is a natural formation. Just as Old Faithful is a place where the skin of the earth is opened to what lies below, Sunnydale was a place where various hell dimensions simmered close beneath the surface."

 

 

"And sometimes erupted."

 

 

"Yes. Wolfram &amp; Hart's headquarters, on the other hand -- I believe it was -- well. Manmade may be putting it naively. It was constructed, but I'm not sure humans were involved."

 

 

"Things that were constructed can be demolished. Even fake hellmouths, I think. We plugged up a real one."

 

 

"You got lucky."

 

 

"Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence." He guns it through a yellow left-turn arrow. "What the hell happened to you, anyway? You used to be absolutely certain you were always right, the Council had an answer for everything and Right would prevail."

 

 

Wes eyes the street life flashing past his window. "I discovered I was full of shit."

 

 

Xander refrains from saying he could have told Wes that five years ago. "You should talk to Buffy."

 

 

Wes's eyes meet his in the rearview. "And why would I wish to do that?"

 

 

"She's been through this. Finding rest and peace in death, then getting it yanked away from her. She had a really hard time with it, and the people around her --" Xander can't quite bring himself to say _we_ \-- "couldn't see clearly what was going on. She went through a couple of rough years, but she's doing well now. I think she could help. Someone who gets it."

 

 

"Perhaps," Wes says, in a tone that makes it clear he's already rejected the idea.

 

 

Xander pulls up in front of the hotel they've made their temporary base. "Still feel that nobody's got the answers but you, don't you?" He releases the back lock. "Don't discount the notion that you might still be full of shit."

 

 

***

 

 

Xander shepherds Wes into the conference room the team has taken over as their tactical headquarters. Henri looks mildly surprised as he turns from the board where the marked-up building plans are tacked, and then more surprised when he sees Wes's state.

 

 

"Found him." He makes introductions, hesitating over Wes's last names. It's been a long damn time since he's heard them. "He's a former colleague of my friends in Cleveland," Xander adds, hoping to hell this will add a little credibility. He goes to the urn by the room's entrance and gets two styrene cups of black coffee, handing one to Wes.

 

 

"I must apologize for my condition," Wes says, making an astounding transformation into a functioning human being. "I spent the night with friends and coworkers at the emergency room, and when I came home I found I valued a drink far more than a shower."

 

 

Henri flicks a look at the bloodstains on Wes's clothes and nods. "Not surprising. You were there when it came down, then."

 

 

"Yes." He's a good liar. "I was lucky enough to be on the lobby level at the time."

 

 

"Xander tells us you might have some insight into the conditions we might find on the site. We need to bring the north wall down before it collapses, so we'll be planting some charges to influence the direction of its fall. If we might run into anything that's going to threaten my team's safety, now's the time to know."

 

 

Wes nods. "I was with Wolfram &amp; Hart for about a year. There were interests the firm had that weren't disclosed when they were recruiting me. I can't even guarantee a complete picture of their activities. They were firm believers in the right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing."

 

 

"Listen," Henri says, "we've had people hanging around the site telling us shit about werewolves and that. Whatever you can tell us that isn't batshit, we'd appreciate."

 

 

Wes directs a grim smile in Xander's direction. "Well. There was a science division, and I became aware of some experimentation they were engaged in. Cloning, gene modification and the like. They were interested in patenting any new technology and reaping the benefits. I can see how some of those experiments came to have rather lurid interpretations."

 

 

He's good. Xander has to give him that. Nobody's calling him a wackaloon yet. "So this talk of monsters --"

 

 

"Some of the ... results of their work could be viewed as such."

 

 

"Any chance these things could be still alive, caught in the rubble?" Henri asks.

 

 

"It's possible. I believe they were kept in cages that were well fortified. They were well protected, below the ground floor of the building."

 

 

"Sub-basement?" Henri asks, stabbing the blueprints with a finger.

 

 

"There are hidden levels you won't find on your plans." Wes holds his gaze. "Drop what's left down into that crater. Plug it thoroughly." Interesting. Despite his dismissal of their accomplishment in Sunnydale, that's exactly what he's suggesting here.

 

 

Henri frowns. "What about potential survivors?"

 

 

"If anyone was down there, I wouldn't give good odds on their survival," Wes says.

 

 

"What else have we got?" Henri asks. "If they were fooling around with DNA, could there be toxic wastes and radiation too?"

 

 

"Take nothing for granted," Wes answers. "If you have protective gear, by all means use it."

 

 

Henri nods. "You wouldn't happen to be familiar with the other site, would you? Old hotel called the Hy--" Henri glances over his notes-- "Hyperion? It collapsed shortly after the office building."

 

 

"Quite familiar, at one time. My work was conducted from there for some years, before I joined Wolfram &amp; Hart."

 

 

"Mind my asking what it is you do?" Henri asks.

 

 

Xander's particularly interested in what Wes comes up for this one.

 

 

"Not at all," Wes says. "Scholarly research. Mythologies, ancient cultures and the like."

 

 

"And there's a big call for this in law firms?" Theirry asks.

 

 

"Wolfram &amp; Hart isn't like most law firms. They were interested in a number of disciplines and their potential practical applications."

 

 

"Anything we should know about the hotel site before we go in?"

 

 

"It's been a year since I was there," Wes says, finishing his coffee. "So anything could have happened in the meantime. The place had a bizarre history, certaintly, but the dangers of demolishing it, I suspect, are those inherent to the work you do."

 

 

Henri nods. "Then let's get to it." He offers his hand and thanks Wes for the information, then turns back to the team to work out explosives placement.

 

 

"Thanks," Xander echoes, offering his own hand. "I can't drive you back just now, but I can give you cab fare home."

 

 

"Thanks all the same," Wes says, "but I'm not going home again."

 

 

***

 

 

Xander's eyebrows shoot upward. "You're taking off? As in leaving town? I didn't exactly give you any time to pack."

 

 

"That fact may buy me some time. She may think I'm coming back."

 

 

No question at all who _She_ could be. "Because she's such an ace with the logical human thought processes. You think she even gets the concept of a change of clothes?"

 

 

Wes sighs. "You may be right. All the more reason to make haste."

 

 

"You Brits." Xander shakes his head. "'Make haste.'" He reaches into his pocket for his room key. "Use my shower, if you like. I'll be working all day, you can even catch some sleep. Just don't touch the minibar. As in literally. It's one of those pressure-sensitive things, as soon as you pick something up to look at it, they charge the room."

 

 

Wes shakes his head, but doesn't exactly make with the haste.

 

 

"She won't know where you are," Xander urges. "Unless she's got superpowers. Does she have superpowers? Beyond the godlike sense of entitlement?"

 

 

"No. She-- No." He takes the card key from Xander's hand, and Xander tells him the room number. "I can't bear looking at her. She's a grotesque parody of the woman I loved, the woman she killed while clawing her way into the world."

 

 

Xander nods. "I can understand that. My girl didn't make it out of Sunnydale. Wherever you go, do something. I took a job in Cleveland busting up shit with a sledgehammer. I can't recommend it highly enough."

 

 

Wes flicks a glance at the whiteboards and the tacked-up blueprints and diagrams. "It led you here."

 

 

Xander nods. "Speaking of Cleveland, I'll take a flying guess and say Giles could use you. He's got an exciting hellmouth and a gaggle of slayers and it's a lot. I think there's an opening for Vice President in Charge of Exasperation."

 

 

Wes ghosts a smile. "I doubt he'd wish to delegate that."

 

 

"There's plenty to go around."

 

 

"I'll keep that in mind."

 

 

"He's in the phone book." Xander glances at the others gathered around the plans and diagrams. "I, uh, gotta make haste."

 

 

Wes taps the card key against his fingertips. "Thank you."

 

 

Xander watches him go, then turns back to the business of turning buildings into dust.

 

 

***

 

 

The loading team is quiet, and there's a tension and caution in their movements as they follow the routine: drill holes in support beams, lay the charges, plug the holes, wrap the beams and move on. But it's not routine, and that's where the tension comes in.

 

 

First, there's the instability of the building after its initial collapse. No telling what could trigger a second failure. Their movements from one point to another, vibrations from the drills or from the street outside, shifting of debris. His firm has done this kind of work before -- earthquakes, structural failure, bombings -- but those jobs were before his time.

 

 

On top of the normal worries of this job, there's the charming thought of one -- or more -- of Wolfram &amp; Hart's "genetic experiments" swarming up from the sub-to-the-tenth-power-basement to relieve its hibernating-bear hunger. Xander had done some scouting and found a pawn shop near enough for a quick detour and armed himself with a samurai sword -- what pawn shop _doesn't_ have a samurai sword? A couple of the guys had laughed at him when he appeared with it, but it was damn nervous laughter.

 

 

He works on the ground level, helping lay the explosives that will topple what's left of the structure. If anything's going to attack the team, it's likely to come from below.

 

 

He listens to the subdued chatter on the radio as crew members move from level to level. Usually the talk is a lot more free-wheeling -- jokes, chat about weekend plans, bursts of song. Once in a while a recognition of the former life of whatever shell they're roaming around. Usually, though, that shell is intact, stable.

 

 

"Holy shit!" A blaster named Tim yelps. "What the fuck?!"

 

 

Xander hands off the dynamite and blasting cap he's just picked up and whirls toward the cries, unsheathing the sword.

 

 

***

 

_Holy shit_ is a good start. The horned demon thing that's just tossed Tim into a pile of rubble is possibly the ugliest Xander's seen in a career that's encompassed a wide range of ugly. The long, gnarly horn, for one thing, poking out of the center of its forehead. Pointy ears, ridges over its eyes and down the length of its nose, though not vampire style. (_Like beading_, supplies the part of Xander's brain that still thinks of himself as a carpenter and likes pointing out stupid details at inappropriate moments.)

 

 

Its style of fighting seems based on the ancient martial art of Hulk Smash -- it lumbers after Tim, bellowing, arms waving like it's in a bar fight. No claws or pincers, at least, and no weapons in its hands. The demon's big enough that his flailing can do plenty of damage, even aside from the fact that the building is unstable and laced with explosives.

 

 

Xander hefts the sword. "Hey, you horny bastard. Over here."

 

 

The demon turns to face him and Tim scrambles to his feet and out of reach.

 

 

Xander brandishes the blade just to hear the sound it makes as it cuts through the air. The sword feels good in his hand, feels _right_, a sense memory of the battle on the last day of Sunnydale. He'd felt so comfortable wielding a sword that day that he'd half suspected Willow of enchanting it -- or him -- despite her denials. Now that same energy flows through him.

 

 

He does not want it.

 

 

That's not him, not anymore.

 

 

"Why don't we step outside, settle this like, uh, bipeds?"

 

 

Horny Guy seems to want to settle it inside. He rushes Xander, but Xander slashes out with the blade and a spray of hot, egg-yolk yellow goo geysers from the wound. Xander attacks again, driving the demon back.

 

 

"Get everyone out!" he shouts, and he hears someone on the radio relaying the command. Under their hurried, unified retreat, Xander hears the shriek of twisted metal. No time to be screwing around. Xander presses the attack.

 

 

The thing comes at him, lunging in close enough that working with the blade becomes difficult. It swings its fists, slamming him in the upper body, one blow to the shoulder sending a wave of numbness down his arm. The demon flicks his sword away and it clatters over the debris-strewn floor. A heartbeat later, Xander goes flying in the opposite direction, the breath whooshing out of him as he lands.

 

 

"Xander, can you get out?"

 

 

No time to answer, no breath to try. The demon comes toward him, horn lowered and aimed right at the soft and squooshy places. Xander curls himself away from the thing just as its hand swipes at him. He scrambles up, expecting another blow or a grasp around his leg, but the arm lies limp, along with the rest of the demon. A goo-covered chunk of marble rests by its ugly head.

 

 

Tim grins at Xander. "Where's that sword? I think we oughta make sure he's finished." A loud groan of tortured metal accompanies Xander's rise to his feet. "Then I suggest we get the hell out of here."

 

 

***

 

 

There's barely time to react to what's just happened. Xander whirls and looks for his sword, snatching it up just as the demon starts to shift. Slight as the movement is, Xander can read the ripple of bunched muscle, energy waiting to uncoil. He strides to where it's sprawled and swings the sword.

 

 

Xander and Tim watch the head skitter across the cracked marble-inlay floor.

 

 

"Hardly seems sporting," Xander says. It sounds strange coming from his mouth, more like something Giles would say.

 

 

"Yeah, well, he didn't give me any notice, so I say we're even," Tim says.  
"Hey, let's take the head."

 

 

It seems like a bad idea for a variety of reasons, but before Xander can come up with one that doesn't sound crazy, another screech of failing metal sounds.

 

 

He catches Tim's arm. "We'd better boogie." All he wants out of life is to get the hell out and drop the shell of the building down into its subbasement. He fervently hopes all the connections are made and it's ready to blow. Henri hates to do things in a rush and for good reason, but this is one time there's no waiting for an engraved invitation.

 

 

Henri must've sensed the same thing. As they make their way out of the wreck, Eileen is going through the pre-blast check. "Eddie, are you clear?"

 

 

"_\--clear_\--"

 

 

"Dave, are you clear?"

 

 

"--_clear_\--"

 

 

She calls off the name of everyone who'd been inside, and every time the answer is _Clear_. Xander and Tim just make it behind the barricade when it's time to add their names.

 

 

"One-minute siren, ADC. This is your one-minute siren." The siren warbles. "Jamie, warm up the blasting machine and tell me when you're in the red."

 

 

There's no time for the others to react to their escape, except the closest guys, who paw their shoulders and their hardhats. Everyone's getting their eye and ear protection on, pulling on dust masks.

 

 

"We're in the red, Eileen."

 

 

"Here we go, ADC. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six--" It's a quick countdown, that was one of the things that struck him on his first job. No _tenmississippi, ninemississippi_ or _T-minus_ anything, just a fast march from ten to six, then an eerie quiet, the unspoken numbers reverberating in your head.

 

 

Then there's a series of bangs as the charges on the upper floors go, weakening the support beams. Then the big one at ground level that shakes the earth beneath his feet.

 

 

He'd described it this way to Dawn and Buffy and Will: It's like you're holding an opened sleeve of saltines upside down, the contents slipping downward in a straight fall. Damaged as the Wolfram &amp; Hart building is, it goes down the same way.

 

_Cork the fucking thing_, he thinks. _Cover it over with concrete and build another ugly office building._

 

 

The tower no sooner settles into its own foundation than the thick grey dust cloud begins to spread.

 

 

***

 

 

The shock wave buffets the team and the curiosity seekers behind the outer barricade and the cloud boils toward them, moving like a living thing.

 

 

"Could be anything in that dust cloud," Tim shouts in his ear, and Xander knows he's not talking about air quality. He adjusts his grip on his goo-laden sword.

 

 

Grit blows hot in his face along with the gunpowdery smell of the explosives. He has to admit, he loves this smoky stink. Maybe it's the influence of the hellmouth.

 

 

The air goes completely opaque, then downgrades to merely murky, and he scans the newly compacted rubble for movement. Tim, he senses, is doing the same. Anything fast-moving, though, could be behind them already, making its way through the crowd of lookie-loos.

 

 

He should call Giles, get some slayers out here.

 

 

He turns to look behind, and is met by a swarm of colleagues with the belated reactions.

 

 

"Check out Harris with the sword."

 

 

"What _is_ that yellow shit all over you?"

 

 

"Did you see that?" Tim cries. "Did you _see_ that freakin' thing? It nearly got me."

 

 

"Was ugly, that's all I saw."

 

 

"It had a goddamn _horn_, right here. Xander took its head clean off."

 

 

Henri raises his brows. "Where'd you learn that sort of swordplay?"

 

 

Xander shrugs. "Misspent youth."

 

 

"Yeah, sure. Drinks are on me tonight. You and Tim both."

 

 

"I'm warning you, it's gonna take me a few," Tim says. "Unless you'll need me at the hotel in the morning." The plan had been that the Hyperion would come down in the morning and Wolfram &amp; Hart that same afternoon.

 

 

"Nah, Thierry's team has that covered. Things should go on schedule. Unless _they've_ got the Frankensteinian experiments going on in _their_ basement too.

 

 

"Here's hoping-- _shit_." Xander's still gazing out toward the second barricade, where he sees an angular figure with blue hair whipping around her face. "Fuck me blind."

 

 

"Your girlfriend's back," Henri says.

 

 

"_Not_ funny."

 

 

The cops on the scene have spotted Illyria at the same time Henri did. They swarm toward her, but somehow she melts away into the crowd.

 

 

"Now how did you meet her?"

 

 

"Home Depot."

 

 

Henri starts to respond to the joke, then realizes Xander's serious. "Well, if she's handy, _I_ might be interested."

 

 

"Trust me," Xander says, his attention still on the cops moving through the crowd in a fruitless search. "These gods are much too high maintenance."

 

 

"The what?"

 

 

"Oh." He feels the heat rising in his face. "Goddess types, I meant."

 

 

Henri laughs. "You've got some strange ideas of goddesses."

 

_Don't I just._

 

 

They return to their post-blast routine, but Xander finds his attention repeatedly drawn back to that fleeting glimpse of blue.

 

 

***

 

 

A boiling-hot shower and several layers of skin later, Xander finally feels sufficiently degooed. He puts in a call to Cleveland and asks the junior slayer who picks up for Giles.

 

 

"I'm in L.A. on a job," he says once they've gotten the greetings out of the way.

 

 

"That business with Wolfram &amp; Hart."

 

 

"Yeah. It's down, the hotel goes tomorrow."

 

 

"And did things go according to expectation?"

 

 

"Well, if you expected weird shit to happen, it went like clockwork. Apparently they had a collection of demons in the sub-basement levels. My crew was attacked by one while we were planting charges. I had to kill it, and I got some kind of yellow gunk all over me. I thought I should call to make sure I'm not gonna start reading minds or something."

 

 

"You're unhurt, I trust."

 

 

"Fine, as long as the gunk doesn't hurt me."

 

 

"All right, then. Describe it for me. Yellow gunk -- blood, I take it?"

 

 

"Yes. And it had a horn in the middle of its forehead. And when it was bad, it was horrid."

 

 

"One horn, not two? Did you have time to note its shape? Was it pointed and curved, or --"

 

_Shaped like Anya's dream vibrator_, he thinks, but will never never say. "Straight. Long, thick, ridged."

 

 

"What else can you recall?"

 

 

"I suppose it goes without saying that it was ugly. Big, more or less man-shaped, lumpy head, bumpy face -- it had a double row of bumps along its nose that divided over its eyes like brows."

 

 

Xander hears the rustle of pages over the phone. Weird doing a research session over the phone, but there's a comfort in knowing Giles is on the case.

 

 

"You've a good eye for detail in the midst of a battle." More pages flipping. "Good lord."

 

 

"_That's_ never good. What?"

 

 

"What color was its skin?"

 

_Dammit, Jim, I'm a carpenter, not a decorator._ "Kind of a muddy yellow-green, I guess. I wouldn't pick it for my living room walls."

 

 

Giles lets out an audible breath that crackles over the line. "You and your colleagues are quite fortunate to be alive. I believe the creature you encountered was a Kungai demon."

 

 

"Fungi?"

 

 

"That's Kungai with a K."

 

 

"Thank god. You know how I feel about mushrooms after all those pizza delivery gigs."

 

 

"It's extremely dangerous in battle. Its Tak horn is quite deadly if it punctures the skin, causing death in a matter of seconds."

 

 

Xander feels the sudden need to sit. He lands ungracefully on the edge of the bed. "Oh, it was longer than a tack."

 

 

"That's T-a-k. It's no joking matter. You could have been killed."

 

 

"I'm getting that, believe me."

 

 

"You're certain it's dead?"

 

 

"I cut its head off, then dropped a building on it. I certainly hope it's dead, because otherwise it's going to be seriously pissed off."

 

 

"Just a moment." Another whisper of turning pages, and then Giles says, "That should work. There's nothing here to indicate it needs special handling."

 

 

For some reason the phrase _special handling_ draws a laugh from him. Maybe it's the hysteria. "Thanks Giles. Listen, there's drinking going on downstairs, and I seriously believe I need to be involved. Send my love." He drops the phone into the cradle.

 

 

Feels like there was something else he'd planned to talk to Giles about, but it's been wiped away by news of the near miss.

 

 

Xander rises on shaky legs and heads down to the hotel bar.

 

 

***

 

 

Despite Tim's assertion that he was in need of many drinks, he was keeping a lid on his intake, as was Xander. It was ingrained habit, because it was smart. Two beers the night before a job was a big night, and even though Henri's team had finished the Wolfram &amp; Hart job there was no telling what Thierry's team might run into tomorrow at the Hyperion. Even on a normal job, he'd keep it low-key until the whole thing was done.

 

 

He collects plenty of IOUs for drinks when the Hyperion is finished. Tim's been telling Theirry's team about his narrow escape, and if Xander's not mistaken, his own role has grown more swashbuckly and heroic with each telling.

 

 

"He shows up at the site with a freakin' _samurai sword_," Tim tells Eileen. "He got it at a pawn shop on the way in. So when this _thing_ comes after me, he's slicin' and dicin' like a master swordsman." Tim describes an epic battle, the retelling taking longer than the actual battle.

 

 

"I miss all the good stuff," Thierry says.

 

 

"Nothing unusual happened where you were?" Xander asks.

 

 

"Nah. Though we did find tons of our own weird goo splashed around, especially in this alley next to the hotel. Yellow, green, even glow-in-the-dark shit. Oh yeah, and there was this weird chick who showed up for a while, goth girl meets the Smurfs. I couldn't tell what her deal was. Death and dust and slime."

 

 

"It's a change from the conspiracy types, at least," says Eddie.

 

 

A while later Henri pulls Xander aside and asks how he's doing. "That dash from the building while things were starting to come down around your ears, that had to bring back some nasty memories." Henri's the only one he's told about his escape from Sunnydale and just how close it had been.

 

 

"I'm okay," Xander says. "The swordfight was a nice distraction. I didn't really connect the two."

 

 

"Glad to hear it. If it sneaks up on you later and you need to talk, you know where to find me."

 

 

Xander nods. "I appreciate that."

 

 

"There's another girl giving you the eye," Henri says. "Must be something about being a sword-swinging guy."

 

 

Xander follows his gaze to the girl in question. She's not _another_ girl at all. She's the brown-haired, twang-talking girl who knelt beside Wes for a few moments just before Illyria plunged her hands inside him and dragged him back into the land of the living.

 

 

She approaches and flashes a quick, nervous smile. "Hi," she says, and there's twang even in that tiny syllable. "I wondered if we could talk."

 

 

***

 

 

"Um," Xander says.

 

 

"I should introduce myself," the girl says. "Winifred Burkle, but most everyone calls me Fred."

 

 

As if he could forget. Wes had called her name, in his moment of dying/not dying. What kind of god names her mild-mannered alter-ego Winifred-Burkle-but-you-can-call-me-Fred?

 

 

Henri is giving him a look, no doubt puzzled by his reaction.

 

 

"Xander Harris," he belatedly says. "And this is Henri--"

 

 

She jerks her head toward him in Illyria's weird, insecty way. "Leave us."

 

 

Henri thumps him in the universal guy code for _Go get 'em, Tiger._ "I think I'll have another beer."

 

_No no no_, Xander wants to say, but Henri's already gone. This is a trait Xander's appreciated once or twice when he's picked up a woman after a job, but not so much now.

 

 

"Wesley has not returned. Where is he?"

 

 

"I don't know. I haven't seen him since this morning."

 

 

"You will help me find him."

 

 

"I won't help you find him." He'd hoped that the last words he ever said would be a little pithier, or at least funny, but it can't be helped. He waits to be smote. Smitten. Giles could probably tell him which, but he won't live long enough to ask.

 

 

"Your insolence disgusts me."

 

 

"I've had that effect on a lot of people."

 

 

"When I have finished with you, I will crush you beneath my heel." This should alarm him or fill him with dread, but coming from this girl in her demure blouse and skirt, all he can think is that she could rake in serious cash as a dominatrix.

 

 

"He needs what he needs. He's grieving."

 

 

"He is in despair."

 

 

"You can't help that any more than you can help the grief. Let him deal with it on his own."

 

 

"I would understand more about grief. You will tell me of yours."

 

 

***

 

_Go piss up a rope_, he considers saying. But he survived refusing to stalk Wes for Illyria, and it might be tempting fate -- more like cockteasing fate -- to say no to her again. "Not here."

 

 

"We shall betake ourselves to a more suitable location. You reside in a chamber in this place?"

 

 

"I do. Let's betake away." Xander leads her to the elevators, wishing to hell that the Hyperion job was already over so he could do significant damage to the minibar, cost be damned.

 

 

The elevator doors glide open and he ushers Fred inside. "These devices are an abomination," she mutters as other hotel guests pile into the car. "How dare these mortals jostle me so."

 

 

A couple of passengers exchange a look.

 

 

"People generally don't speak on elevators," Xander whispers close to her ear. "It's part of our crazy human ritual."

 

 

"What are your pitiful ceremonies to me?" But at least she clams up after that.

 

 

The elevator crawls to the eleventh floor, stopping at every floor. Illyria gets progressively bluer as they rise, and by the time they're alone after the tenth floor, she's back to her weird, leatherclad self, though she's still standing altogether too close, as if the car's still packed. The doors glide open.

 

 

"This is us," Xander says.

 

 

"You presume too much, speaking of yourself in the same breath."

 

 

He sighs. "I meant, this is our floor." He catches the doors before they close and gestures her out. Briefly he toys with the idea of letting them slide closed again and going back down, even checking into another hotel. He suspects she'd do a lot more than grind him beneath her heel when she caught up to him. He likes his guts where they are. Sighing again, he follows and leads by walking behind. He wonders if she's still drained by creating the stasis field and then bringing Wes back, but her odd gait makes it tough to tell. "That's the one," he tells her as she reaches his door.

 

 

She waits regally for him to admit her.

 

 

Illyria heads for the window, pressing her hands against the glass as she gazes out over the city.

 

 

He turns on the room light.

 

 

"Extinguish that," she commands.

 

 

Xander flips the switch off again and waits, holding his breath. He's blown his chance and now he's stuck here with a crazy god who wants to rummage through his mental state.

 

 

Well, whatever. He likes the idea of surviving this. In some weird way he suspects it will be easier talking about Anya to Miss Insectoid than it was to Dawn or Buffy or Willow -- even Giles -- whose sympathetic gazes tended to overwhelm him.

 

 

Seriously, he can do this. Pretend he's some poor sap on a _Twilight Zone_ rerun, being pawed over by an alien psychotherapist. Or that she _is_ a dominatrix -- he and Anya tried a little of the power play now and then to spice things up. He's not weird enough to _pay_ for it, but--

 

 

Well, _that's_ interesting. The thought makes him suck in a breath.

 

 

What if he _was_ a paying customer? This would all be negotiated, all volunatry. A tightrope act, but one that won't keep the prospect of her using his guts for garland in the forefront of his thoughts. He lets his imagination sketch in a few details.

 

 

Might as well get this thing started. He crosses the room, sits in a chair.

 

 

Her head whips toward him. "I have not given you leave to sit in my presence. You will stand until I say otherwise."

 

 

He gets to his feet, head bowed, and waits for further instructions.

 

 

***

 

 

"I allowed Wesley to sit where and when he pleased, and you have seen how this made him bold, led him to treat me with such contempt."

 

 

This is one he's not touching. He waits in permission-to-speak attitude.

 

 

"I gave his life back to him, and he treats my gift as if it were offal."

 

 

He thinks of Buffy. It was hard enough on her to be dragged back by her friends.

 

 

"I would have your counsel. You seem to understand him."

 

 

He doesn't raise his eyes to her. "Maybe he didn't want to be brought back."

 

 

She steps in close to him. Closer than comfortable with anyone, much less an ancient god-king with a mad on, but he resists stepping back. "I have seen how humans cling to your fleeting lives. I cannot tell if it is one of your race's many weaknesses, or a sign of strength."

 

 

Xander twitches a smile. "Neither can I." All he knows is he'd like to cling a little longer to his own. "Demon fighting is hard. It wears a person down. Maybe he was ready to rest. Maybe he wanted an end to grief."

 

 

"Yes, grief. The stench of it clings to you, but less strongly than to Wesley. Tell me why this is so."

 

 

"I don't know anything about what happened to Wes, but I imagine it was a lot more recent. Time tends to soften grief, though you still miss the person you loved. You still love her."

 

 

"This female you mourn. You will relate her death to me. Tell me when it occurred."

 

 

"It was around a year ago." His head jerks up as the realization strikes him. "It was exactly a year ago. May 20." How could he have let this date slide by without realizing?

 

 

Her head cocks to the side. "And now the stench is thick upon you, almost as strong as Wesley's. Explain this."

 

 

"Anniversaries matter to us, especially in grief."

 

 

"Why should this be so?"

 

 

Xander shrugs. "We mark time. Maybe because we have so little of it. Y'know, I thought I was in the mood for the whole PowerPoint on Ways We Grieve, but I'm not." How do you give a god the bum's rush? He begins to turn toward the door. "If you don't mind--"

 

 

She seizes him by the arm, her thumb digging into a spot that sends searing pain through his synapses. He goes to his knees.

 

 

"I care not for your moods. You will explain this to me now. Remain on your knees. I have given your kind far too much license, and it galls me to endure the liberties you take."

 

 

He cradles his arm, panting. "You have my profound apologies."

 

 

"They mean nothing to me. All I wish is that which I asked of you. Tell me about the death of this female."

 

 

"Her name was Anya."

 

 

***

 

 

"These details are of no importance. Tell me of her death."

 

 

"Her name was Anya," he says again. Clearly he's not quite so natural a submissive as Illyria is a dom. "She was funny and sexy and infuriating and she had an overdeveloped sense of justice when it came to scorned women."

 

 

"Why do you persist in abusing my ears with this trivia?"

 

 

"Because it's important. Because it's what makes grief so unbearable. And what makes it bearable. Little things, small memories -- trivial details like who she was. Without love you don't have this kind of grief. You might feel sad. You might even feel sad again a year later when you think of the person -- _if_ you happen to think of him or her. But if you want to understand Wes, you have to understand the whole package."

 

 

"Then proceed, but be brief."

 

_What the fuck is he doing here, on his knees before a god who makes Glory look like the girl next door, talking about Anya?_

 

 

"You remind me of her, actually. She wanted to understand humans but most of the time the subtle things went right over her head."

 

 

"It is not my experience that humans wish to understand their own kind."

 

 

"She wasn't human, not when I first met her. Anya was a vengeance demon, but she lost her mojo and became human. She was new at it and didn't always get it right."

 

 

Illyria tilts her head. "She was diminished. Warped into something unnatural."

 

 

"_No._"

 

 

"Yet you loved her."

 

 

"Yes. We loved each other. We were planning to marry." No need to tell her the messy parts.

 

 

"She sought to understand her prison, as I do."

 

 

This pisses him off. He risks a direct gaze. "So that's all Wes is to _you_? Your Annie Sullivan? Your native guide? That's why what you really want to do is chase him cross-country if you have to?"

 

 

Anger sparks in her weird doll's eyes. It gratifies Xander, though he knows he's just crossed into the red zone. "I grow weary of your insolence. It is not your place to question me or speculate on my motives. You forget that I could kill you as easily as look upon you."

 

 

"I haven't forgotten." Maybe he's grown cocky from handling explosives for a living. Thinks he's bulletproof. He hears a trace of insolence in his own voice.

 

 

"You are fortunate that I still require your assistance, or I would amuse myself with your screams as I plucked out your viscera, organ by organ."

 

 

He's not _that_ cocky. Making another attempt at finding his inner sub, he lowers his gaze. "What do you require from me?"

 

 

***

 

 

"Tell me of her death."

 

 

"She fell in battle. In Sunnydale--" the name won't mean a thing to her --"a hellmouth not too far from here."

 

 

Illyria cocks her head. "In battle."

 

 

"There was an apocalypse brewing. We got those a lot in Sunnydale. We went to the hellmouth to stop it."

 

 

"You believe yourself to be a champion."

 

 

"What? No. I'm just a guy who helps out." Not as regularly as he used to, but he does head to Cleveland when he gets a few days off.

 

 

"You walk with heroes," she says in a low voice.

 

 

It seems like a weird statement, coming from her, but it strikes a chord deep within him. "Exactly."

 

 

"Your vengeance demon, she died a hero."

 

 

Xander nods. "She also died a human."

 

 

"You held her as the life bled from her?"

 

 

A knife twist this time, in the same spot she touched before. "No."

 

 

Illyria regards him. "So. This explains why your grief is less than Wesley's."

 

 

He looks directly at her. "No. First, it is not less, it's different. Second -- I wasn't there. I didn't even see her body. You can't imagine how terrible that is."

 

 

"That is why I require your instruction. It is human grief that pulls Wesley from my orbit. I must know everything about this emotion, no matter how it disgusts me. I must immerse myself in every detail."

 

 

"You didn't get a clue just before you put Wes in stasis?"

 

 

"You dare to ascribe your human traits to me? And then to question me -- you anger me at your peril."

 

 

Right. Guts for Mardi Gras necklaces. It's a good thing to bear in mind. "Sorry. I'll keep a lid on it."

 

 

"Relate this story to me. The death of this half-demon. Your failure to see the evidence of her death. Explain to me why this should grieve you."

 

 

Xander closes his eyes. His knees are killing him. "There wasn't a chance to say goodbye to her. There wasn't a chance to save her -- or comfort her."

 

 

"Comfort accomplishes nothing. Wesley held Fred in his arms, and in the end it meant nothing. Her death was required, and it was no less agonizing for his presence. She was no less alone."

 

 

"Fred is --"

 

 

"This shell I inhabit." Her voice changes to the girlish, honey-accented one, but it's barely audible, fragmented. "I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. Please, Wesley, why can't I stay?"

 

 

"Jesus!" Xander's head jerks up, but it's still Blue Bug-Girl standing before him. Horror and pain flower within him as if it's Anya's death he's eavesdropping on instead of this girl Fred's. "He was holding her when this happened?"

 

 

"I do not repeat myself at your whim. I have said this was so."

 

 

"Of course he's taken off. How can you expect him to be where he can see you every day, see what became of the girl he loved?" It's as if one of the Bringers had walked around after the battle, wearing Anya's skin. The thought is unbearable.

 

 

"If you find this such a loathesome prospect, perhaps you'd best be grateful you were spared the sight of the half-breed's corpse."

 

 

Fresh grief blows through him, this time laced with fury. He sucks in a breath to speak, but manages to stop himself in time. That's one thing he's learned in his work, caution when handling explosive material. Which includes his temper. Still, he can't say nothing at all. "Her name was Anya."

 

 

"Your kind has an insistence on naming what is so far above you you should tremble at its very sound or those who are as the dust beneath my feet."

 

 

"Are you an anthropologist or a missionary?"

 

 

"Again you have the temerity to question me."

 

 

"It was rhetorical, so I think it's allowed."

 

 

"These words are meaningless to me. I grow weary of listening to your bleating."

 

 

"What I'm saying is, if you want to study the habits of the natives, you'll get a better picture if you stop commenting on how loathesome and benighted they are. Just sayin'." He decides it might be a good time to bring this around to a topic she's interested in. "I'm sure Wes said Fred's name a lot. This is important to us."

 

 

A look flickers across her face. Xander finds her tough to read. "Yes, but he did not like hearing it from my lips."

 

 

"We get that way. We feel like guardians. Of name and memories."

 

 

She eyes him for a long moment. "I have enough for the present. I give you leave to sleep now." She points at the floor by the foot of the bed. "This will do."

 

 

"The floor?!" he yelps.

 

 

"This sleep dais is mine by rights. I do you an honor by allowing you to remain in this chamber at all."

 

_Thanks a hell of a lot, Wes. First your pet god-king rummages through my memories, then I get to sleep at its feet like a dog._

 

 

"Make haste, human. I grow fatigued."

 

 

Shaking his head, Xander takes his place where she pointed. _Maybe I will help her find Wes. If she doesn't kill him, I will._

 

 

***

 

 

Xander wakes to watery gray light from the opened curtains and the sound of snores. Ancient gods snore?

 

 

Well, why not? Who's going to complain?

 

 

Last time Illyria slept, Wes had taken the opportunity to bolt -- well, actually, Xander had kidnapped him. But she'd managed to sleep through that, so Xander decides it's worth a try. He rises silently, still in his clothes -- at least he showered and changed after the Kungai demon, so he's not as funky as he might be. He reaches for his shoes and the sword, feels for his wallet and key card. Everything else he can retrieve later or, if things get nuts, leave behind.

 

 

The door clicks softly behind him as he steps out into the hallway in sock feet. He's just walked far enough to feel he can let out a breath -- two doors down from his -- when another door opens. "Hey, Samurai Xander," Henri booms, and Xander winces. Henri laughs but lowers his voice. "Big night, huh? She must've been a lot wilder than she looks."

 

 

"It's safe to say," he whispers. He makes a _please keep it down_ gesture.

 

 

"You're making a getaway?" Henri punches the elevator button.

 

 

"She's a little needy. I don't want it to cause problems today."

 

 

The elevator door pings and they step inside. "She looked like a nice enough girl, but you never know, do you?"

 

 

"This is why I don't make a habit of looking for nice girls until the job's completely over."

 

 

"Don't worry. We've got the normal security _and_ we've got city cops. They oughta be able to handle a little thing like her."

 

 

Xander laughs because Henri expects it, but it comes out a lot more nervous than he means it to.

 

 

***

 

 

Everyone on the site, including Xander, pretends it's a joke that he brought the samurai sword with him. But nobody suggests he put it away before someone gets hurt. Thierry even asks if he'd lend his crew a hand in placing the charges. Samurai Xander's become a handy guy to have around.

 

 

Whatever happened at the old hotel, though, seems to be over and done. Nothing demonic surges up from the cellar or swoops down from the skies, though now and again Xander picks up a faint smell of brimstone. Thierry's team spreads out through the building's shell, checking the explosives that will undermine the wreck's remaining support columns, and then bring everything crumbling down in the hotel's original footprint.

 

 

The careful attention his work requires -- especially when it involves a damaged building -- pushes aside any thoughts about Illyria and the bizarreness of last night.

 

 

And then he is clear of the building and listening to the call-and-response of Eileen's litany: _Thierry, are you clear?_ _\--clear--_ Today the news vans are out in force, making up for missing yesterday's premature blast. Xander notices a cameraman focusing on the sword in its scabbard slung over his back before zeroing back in on the Hyperion.

 

 

"We're in the red, Eileen."

 

 

"Here we go, ADC. Ten, nine ..."

 

 

The building drops in sections, as if one side slips away into nothing and pulls the other side along with it. Totally by the book, the way Xander likes it. Now the Hyperion and Wolfram &amp; Hart will be left to the local demolition crew and ADC's engineers who prepare the post-blast report.

 

 

"Looking forward to a few days off?" Henri asks as they're finally leaving the site.

 

 

"You have no idea."

 

 

"I can guess. Hole up for a few days with that little librarian--"

 

 

"_Librarian_\--?"

 

 

"The little brown-haired gal. It's the mousy ones that really surprise you sometimes."

 

 

"No no no. No librarians."

 

 

"If I was a single man and your age?" Henri chuckles. "Take a couple extra days. Consider it a bonus for the swordplay. And I don't want to hear that you blew your time off in Cleveland this time."

 

 

"Seriously, I don't--"

 

 

"It's your lucky day. Look who's here waiting in a pretty flowered dress. She's gonna check you out, stamp your ass. Fifty cent fine per day if you're overdue, buddy." Laughing, he thumps Xander on the shoulder and veers off, leaving him to the wrath of his jealous god.

 

 

***

 

 

She shades her eyes with her hand, squinting into the sun, offering a smile that's heartbreakingly sweet. If Wes ever had to see her do this, wearing the face of his dead love, no wonder he fled.

 

 

"Aren't you just the sweetest, letting me sleep in," she says. Once his coworkers pass them by, she drops the smile. "You risk much, abandoning me without my leave." She gestures toward the new vans. "I should allow these vermin to record your death with their machines as I pull your beating heart from your chest." A couple of stragglers from the team catch up with them and she flashes the smile once more. "There's this wonderful place by the sea that has the most amazing pancakes and they serve breakfast all day. Why don't we make a day of it?"

 

 

"Um--" His powers of speech have utterly deserted him.

 

 

"I won't take no for an answer!" She seizes him by the forearm and while it looks casual and friendly, her grip sends a flashfire of pain racing up his arm. "That is your vehicle, is it not?"

 

 

He tries to think of a way to stall, but comes up empty. Illyria digs her thumb into a pressure point, which entices him to hurry along with her. Henri catches sight of the two of them hurrying toward Xander's rental and flashes them a big grin and a wave as he drives off.

 

 

"I find it remarkable how frail these human bodies are," Illyria says conversationally. "How very many pathways there are for pain to travel, how very vulnerable these bags of flesh and viscera are. It stuns me yet to think how your kind has managed to cover the face of this world when my entire army has become dust." She opens the driver's door to the rental and presses her body against his, touching her lips against his, her fingers dancing by his belt buckle. "Get in your vehicle."

 

 

Abruptly she releases his arm and the fire in his arm redoubles. She steps back, the sword and scabbard now in her hands, and watches as he gracelessly falls into the driver's seat. "Do not attempt anything humorous," she commands, and rounds the front of the car to slip into the passenger seat.

 

_Humorous? What the fuck?_ He slumps over the steering wheel, eyes watering, trying to catch his breath.

 

 

"You will take me now to find Wesley," she says, as if giving an address to a cabbie.

 

_Do not attempt anything humorous?_ As the grey haze starts to lift from his vision, he makes the connection. _Don't try anything funny._

 

 

Xander starts the car, for lack of any better ideas. "You've been watching television, haven't you?"

 

 

***

 

 

Alien as she is, Illyria's already apparently absorbed the cultural embarrassment about being caught out on watching too much TV. "What I choose to do to pass the time in this vile world is none of your concern. Now that you have conducted this business you deem so necessary, you will take me to Wesley."

 

 

He regards his hands on the steering wheel. It's been a nice home, this body. He hopes his eviction from it won't be too painful, or that he'll at least pass out early on. "I don't have any better idea where he could be now than I did before. I wasn't putting you off; I have no way of knowing where he'd be."

 

 

"But you know him."

 

 

Xander looks at her. "What? What makes you think that?"

 

 

"When I revived him, he gazed upon you and said, 'I know you.'"

 

 

"Well, yeah. That doesn't mean much more than, 'I recognize you. You're that dumbass Xander that Cordy used to date.' He wouldn't know where I'd go running off to if it was me who disappeared." And why the fuck _hadn't_ he disappeared? "I hadn't seen him for five years, he's changed a huge amount. We both have."

 

 

"I care not for your excuses. You have this machine for transport. I will make use of it, and since you understand its functioning, you will accompany me." She gestures. "Cause it to begin operating."

 

 

Xander sighs and puts the car in gear. Why is his life this way? Filled with danger yet at the same time faintly comic? (Very faintly, and not to him, but still he can see the glimmer of comedy gold.) At least he's worked his way up in the world -- he's the butt monkey of a god instead of a pretentious Eurovamp with a press agent. "He might be at the airport. It's a longshot, but if he's waiting on a flight to a specific place.... If by some chance he's got his passport, he might be heading to Britain. There could be a problem getting access to the gate areas, though. You have to be a passenger."

 

 

"There will be no plroblem."

 

 

It must be nice having total certainty on the lack of problems front. It's probably the very definition of godhood. Xander can think of a number of reasons her certainty's wrong in this case, but decides the better part of valor lies in shutting the hell up. He heads toward the airport, hoping this doesn't make him a sellout to his species, or at least to Wes.

 

 

During a long spell of sitting in traffic, Illyria says, "I wish to hear of Wesley. Tell me what you know of him."

 

 

"Like I said, it's not much, and what there is is ancient history."

 

 

"Then you are fortunate that what I wish is what you are able to provide."

 

 

Fortunate. Xander supposes that he is, as long as he's wearing his guts on the inside.

 

 

"You will tell me what kind of man he was when you knew him."

 

 

"It's been five years."

 

 

"Five years is but the blink of an eye to me."

 

 

He sees the highway sign for the LAX offramp, and starts watching for an opening to wedge the rental into the correct lane. "He was a watcher. There's this group, the Council of Watchers, which oversees the chosen vampire slayer in each generation -- I don't know how much of this you already know."

 

 

"You will not concern yourself with what knowledge I possess. If I grow bored I will make it known."

 

 

"Okay. There's a girl every generation whose destiny is to slay vampires. Now there are a lot more of them, but I was friends with the last one-girl-in-all-the-world. Buffy."

 

 

"I have heard of her. Spike spoke of her."

 

 

Spike. He keeps forgetting that Spike was out there walking around after Buffy had seen him go up in flames. "She had a watcher, but the Council fired him. They sent Wes. I thought he was pompous and overbearing, and he backed that up with incompetence. I wasn't exactly inclined to be friendly with him, since he had a big ol' yen for Cordy, who was my ex-girlfriend, but I'd been hoping to win her back."

 

 

"What is this yen? I have heard this word before."

 

 

"A yearning, I guess. He was sweet on her."

 

 

Illyria frowns. "And your kind has made a commodity of this emotion, to be traded in the marketplace."

 

 

"I don't get you."

 

 

"The voices that emerge from the box that wakes Wesley in the morning. They speak of the affairs of humans as if they are of consequence. Much is discussed of commerce. 'The dollar is up against the yen.'"

 

 

Xander laughs. "That's a different kind of yen. It's what they use for money, in Japan." But now that he considers it, he supposes she's right about emotion as just another commodity in a dirty marketplace.

 

 

"You had no love for Wesley, then."

 

 

"No. I thought he was an idiot. But I was young and stupid myself in those days. Now that I look back, I think he was young and inexperienced and terrified." He feels the weird urge to throw her a bone. "He wanted to do the right thing. He was really dedicated to his work, I know that. It's just I had a different view of how to do the right thing after knowing Giles -- he was the watcher Wes replaced. He acted so damn sure of himself, and it grated."

 

 

"He is no longer so sure of himself," she says, her tone as softened as it gets.

 

 

"Well, neither am I."

 

 

***

 

 

As they near the airport, Illyria leans forward abruptly in the passenger seat, craning to look upward through the windshield. "These silver-skinned behemoths seek to attack us."

 

 

Xander risks a glance upward. "Those are airplanes." Which obviously means nothing to her, so he elaborates: "Machines for transport, like this one. Except they travel in the sky instead of on the ground, and they hold a lot more people."

 

 

She throws an arm up, flinching as one swoops down over them, its shadow briefly moving across the car. "This cannot be so. You see how they drop from the sky. They are on the offensive."

 

 

Xander thinks about the destruction of the Hyperion, much of it done to the top of the structure and the smaller buildings around it. She'd been in that alley, she said. Fantastic. Just what he needs, to be the sidekick of a god with PTSD. "That's how airplanes work. They have to land on the ground, at special places that have been prepared for them. The airport--"

 

 

"--is their hive."

 

 

"Exactly. LAX is one of the busiest airports in the world, so there's a lot of coming and going. Landings and takeoffs. That's all it is."

 

 

"You believe that Wesley would submit to being swallowed by one of these machines."

 

 

"People do it all the time."

 

 

She leans back just a fraction, but the tension doesn't leave her alien-looking body. "Why?"

 

 

"It's a lot faster for long-distance travel. You can cross the country in a few hours when it would take days by car. It wigs some people, sure, but most don't think of it as being swallowed. It's just walking into a long, narrow room with seats too close together. You can feel it moving, but you don't really get a sense of the speed. It doesn't even feel as fast as we're going now. Mostly the trip's just boredom punctuated by occasional bumpy air and some very sporadic terror."

 

 

"You have done this."

 

 

"A fair amount. If you're going to blow up a building, you generally have to go where it is, so I've flown a lot this last year. Not bad for a boy who never went farther than Oxnard until age 23." He slows and clicks on the turn signal for the parking garage.

 

 

"This is the hive?"

 

 

"It's the parking garage that's attached to the hive. That's how it works, you can't just pull up and park."

 

 

"You will take me directly to the hive. There is no time to waste."

 

 

"Illyria, we can't. They'll tow the car away, or call out the bomb squad."

 

 

"Then you will find a replacement. It does not concern me how. You will do as I command."

 

 

Funny thing -- he _will_. He gives the wheel a jerk back onto the ramp toward the departures area.

 

 

"There are transport machines here. Did you think to deceive me?"

 

 

"No, but they can't stop longer than it takes to unload a passenger. We can't both leave the car."

 

 

"I grow weary of this recitation of the rules of men. They have no meaning to me. Stop here. You will accompany me."

 

 

"There's all kinds of security. We can't go to the gate area." He's not even sure why he suggested this in the first place. Just making shit up as he goes, hoping to stay alive. Maybe he can take advantage of the bustle here, anyway, and give her the slip once they're in the crowded terminal.

 

 

She turns toward him, transforming back into Fred. "Still your tongue, or I shall remove it for you." Then she's out of the car, adjusting the skirt of her flowered dress.

 

 

Xander's heart hammers and his stomach does a slow flip.

 

 

She bends to peer in the passenger window, flashing a smile that probably had a lot to do with Wes losing his heart to Fred. A smile Illyria stole by force, that doesn't really belong to her. "C'mon now, honey, we'll be late."

 

 

He kills the engine, pockets the keys and exits the car, wondering, _Does this qualify as suicide?_

 

 

***

 

 

A skycap approaches them, "Got bags? _Hey--_ You can't leave that car here."

 

 

Fred -- Illyria -- raises her hand, fingers splayed, and the skycap freezes. Make that _everything_ freezes. Illyria seizes Xander by the arm and pulls him toward the sliding doors, which of course don't slide because they're frozen along with everything else. She pushes at the metal frame, expecting the door to swing inward, but nothing happens.

 

 

Xander's just weighing whether to come out of stilled-tongue mode long enough to offer some helpful advice. He doesn't love his chances either way. Before he can speak, she swings a fist into the glass, shattering it and pulling him through the curtain of raining glass.

 

 

She marches him through the ticket area, searching the frozen lines of passengers for a familiar face. When they've checked the last ticket counter, she says, "There is more to this hive."

 

 

Xander nods.

 

 

"You will take me there."

 

 

He gestures her past the snaking line through security, and she drags him along. Illyria pauses at the sight of people in bare and stockinged feet stopped in the midst of popping their shoes into plastic tubs to ride through the x-ray scanner.

 

 

She eyes the metal detector frame, where one man is caught mid-stride as he passed through. "This portal, it is part of some purification rite?"

 

 

"A safety measure. To discover anyone who might --" He drops his voice despite his assumption that no one can hear -- "try to blow up an airplane."

 

 

She leads him around the metal detector. "Yet you blow up structures and your kind seems to value this."

 

 

"That's because we're asked to. They're trying to weed out the freelancers, who are trying to make a political or religious point."

 

 

Illyria seems to perk up at the thought, and he wishes he hadn't implanted the idea of explosions as acts of worship.

 

 

They march down Terminal 1, checking the faces at each gate. The temporal stasis holds, but it seems to be taking a lot out of Illyria. Her movements grow jerkier, her gait a little odder.

 

 

"He is not here."

 

 

"This is just Terminal 1."

 

 

"There are others?"

 

 

"Eight. Plus international."

 

 

She nearly staggers, her hand gripping his arm more to steady herself than to drag him along.

 

 

"This is costing you a lot of energy," Xander says.

 

 

"You dare presume question my actions? Be silent, and lead me to the rest of the hive."

 

 

Two more terminals, and her hold is starting to slip. Xander sees small, shimmery movements from the corner of his eye, but when he looks directly where he saw the motion, everything's frozen again.

 

 

"Illyria --"

 

 

"I have not given you leave to speak."

 

 

Xander makes with the tongue-stilling.

 

 

"We will search the next segment of the hive." She takes two strides, then falls in a graceless heap by a news stand.

 

 

And all of a sudden, the airport is bustling once more.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander kneels beside the crumpled god-king, arranging her dress to cover her better.

 

_Now's the time to haul ass_, a part of him points out.

 

 

But she looks so vulnerable -- _is_ vulnerable, sprawled out on her side with her face covered by her hair. Not for the first time, he thinks of Anya.

 

_Certifiably insane, that's what you are._

 

 

"Hey, is she all right?" A kid -- well, he's probably Xander's age -- with backpack and dreads crouches for a better look. "I'll call an ambulance."

 

 

"_No_." _Think fast._ "She's got epilepsy. This happens now and again. She's okay." So he can't leave her here. Look at all the innocent people, and imagine her fury when she wakes and Xander's nowhere to be seen. At least he knows -- sort of -- how to keep her in check. "I need to get her home, that's all."

 

 

"But the paramedics --"

 

 

"We don't have the money for an ER visit." He sees instantly that he's speaking a language this guy understands. "They'll just tell me to take her home to rest, and that's what I'm going to do now. Trust me -- we've been through it before." He gathers Illyria in his arms. He expected somehow that she'd weigh next to nothing, with the hollowed-out bones of a bird, but actually the opposite is true. It's as if she's made of a super-dense element, or pieces of some collapsed star. It's a struggle to lift her and regain his feet. "Thanks for offering to help, we appreciate it." He looks at the gawkers standing beyond the backpacker. "She's fine. I'm just getting her home."

 

 

He brushes off more offers of help as he starts off with her, heading back toward Terminal 1. Though she doesn't rise to consciousness, the stasis field seems to glimmer in and out of existance. At times there are people rushing toward them, and then they freeze or slow in a strange stutterstep, letting Xander pass by. He heads straight for the sidewalk that connects the terminals, bypassing the long concourses they'd explored. By the time he's almost to Terminal 1, he's staggering under Illyria's weight, but it's much too risky to pause for a breather. As it is, there's a cordon around the rental car as they approach, and a van frozen in the act of disgorging cops and bomb-sniffing dogs.

 

 

"Shit," he mutters. "Illyria, if you can hear me, try to keep the stasis going, just a few more minutes."

 

 

They're not that lucky. As he yanks at the yellow police tape, the scene comes alive again.

 

 

"Police, get _down_!" This seems to be another fact of the god-sidekick life -- being at the wrong end of multiple guns.

 

 

He hesitates, since it's hard to drop to the pavement when you've got an armload of god. He decides to play that confusion for all it's worth. "But I--" He flicks a glance down at Illyria, who fortunately still looks like Fred. "She fainted. That's my car. I know I shouldn't have left it, but she's my sister, and I was dropping her off, then she felt faint, and I needed to get her some air. We were looking for a bench or something, then she fainted."

 

 

The guns haven't wavered yet. Though right now he's more worried about the bomb dogs. Thanks to being spirited away from the job site by Illyria, he's wearing clothes and shoes that are bound to attract some canine interest. So far they're holding the dogs by the van, out of nose range.

 

 

"I'm sorry," he continues. "I didn't mean to spook everyone."

 

 

One of the cops tells another to radio for the rescue squad.

 

 

"Really, it's not necessary. This has happened before."

 

 

"Wesley," she murmurs, but she doesn't fully come to, a fact that fills Xander with gratitude.

 

 

"Her boyfriend," Xander whispers. "He died a couple of days ago. She's not doing well."

 

 

"She don't look like she's in any shape to fly," says the one who suggested radioing the paramedics.

 

 

"No. I was going to take her back home. But I --" He casts a glance toward the car. "Sorry. If you need to check it over--"

 

_If they need to check it over, he's fucked._

 

 

The cop who's doing the talking turns toward the van, and Xander holds his breath. "Load 'em back up," he says, then turns his attention on Xander again. "You have no idea what a cluster fuck you caused, ditching the car here."

 

 

"Oh, I think I do." All entry points to LAX funnel the traffic to Terminal 1, which the cops have cordoned off. "Again, I'm really sorry. I'm just, y'know, trying to hold things together."

 

 

"Yeah. Well. Good luck. Be on your way, and we'll try to get this traffic sorted."

 

 

Xander nods. "I appreciate this, I really do."

 

 

"Need a hand with her?"

 

 

Oh, he can imagine that. "No, just the door. It's unlocked."

 

 

He settles Illyria in the passenger seat, buckles her in (a risky proposition, if she awakes just now, but he's still being watched), then gets in behind the wheel. When the cops wave him away from the terminal, his legs are shaking so badly he can barely work the gas pedal.

 

 

***

 

 

Once he can breathe again, Xander glances over at Illyria, and calls her name. No response, which is what he'd hoped for. He digs up his cellphone, despite Henri's hard and fast rule that they never make calls while driving on a business trip, and speed-dials Cleveland.

 

 

Of all the people you want in an emergency, Andrew is not one. "Get Giles," Xander says, breaking into a monologue. Suddenly he gets the attraction of threatening a tongue-removal, and wishes he had the ability to carry it off. "Get him now, this is an emergency. I'll stay on the line."

 

 

He casts nervous glances toward Illyria as he waits. She doesn't seeem to have enough subtlety in her to be faking this swoon. One thing about Illyria: You get pretty much what you see.

 

 

It seems like an eternity before Giles picks up. Xander says, "Please tell me you've heard from Wesley."

 

 

"Wesley?"

 

 

"Uh, former watcher. Two-last-names guy, but I can't think of either."

 

 

"Wyndam-Pryce. Why were you expecting that he'd be contacting me?"

 

 

"I suggested it. By the way, I may have to end this call quickly. If I disappear without saying goodbye, don't worry. Unless you hear screaming, of course."

 

 

"Xander, tell me what's going on. And how is Wesley involved?"

 

 

"He's not, now. What can you tell me about an ancient god-king named Illyria?"

 

 

"As it happens, I've done a fair bit of -- wait. Angel called me about its emergence. Have you seen it?"

 

 

"Seen it? I've got it in my car. Which brings me to a big fat _what now?_"

 

 

"You have it-- Am I correct in assuming those are traffic sounds I'm hearing over the line?"

 

 

"You would be, yes."

 

 

There's a brief pause, during which Xander is sure he can hear glasses being removed and the bridge of Giles's nose being pinched. "Can you tell me just how it transpired that you're in a vehicle with Illyria?"

 

 

A quote from a series of books he devoured in junior high says it best: "With Tantor, the elephant, Tarzan made friends. How? Ask not."

 

 

"Xander, you're in grave danger. Your 'friend' could trample you underfoot at any moment, without a second thought."

 

 

"Not straying into any new territory here, Giles."

 

 

Giles snaps out a command to Andrew to fetch him several books. _Fetch._ This is why Xander misses Giles. "Illyria was one of the ancient gods, one of the most loved and feared. In its original form, it would be better able to devour your car than ride in it."

 

 

"Insecty?"

 

 

"Yes. How do you know? It's not shown signs of reverting, has it?" Alarm tinges his voice.

 

 

"No. She looks mostly human. She can go totally there, if she wants to pass, but the rest of the time she's kind of blueish and wears -- I dunno, I guess you'd call it kind of an exoskeleton. When I first saw her I thought she was some weird leather chick. I didn't take her for anything inhuman."

 

 

"Where did you first encounter her?"

 

 

"Home Depot, where else?"

 

 

"What was her purpose there?" Again, Giles's tone sharpens in concern.

 

 

"Nothing nefarious. She thought one big box store was like all the others. She was looking for bandages. For Wes. He was -- well, he was dead."

 

 

"From what I've heard there was some kind of battle near the hotel. He was involved in that, then?"

 

 

"Something separate, I don't really know the details. She brought him back, but I don't think he's any happier about it than Buffy was at first."

 

 

"Have you any idea why it -- it _is_ inhuman, despite its appearance, and you'd do well to remember that -- why it should have revived Wesley?"

 

 

The admonition annoys him for some reason. Giles has no idea what this last couple of days has been like, how acutely aware Xander is that he's not traveling with the average girl. "My theory? She's got a big ol' yen for him. But he's taken off and we don't know where. He's the one person I know who has a sense of her recent history."

 

 

"Let me conduct some research to see how best to deal with it." _Kill it_ is what he means. "In the meantime, keep your distance. This is not something you can handle on your own."

 

 

"I've gotta go. She's waking up." Xander flips the phone shut and slides it into his pocket. Glancing over at the unconscious god, he wonders just why he lied.

 

_Why? Ask not._

 

 

***

 

 

He decides Wes's apartment is safer than his own hotel room. Though he doesn't have a key, he doubts Illyria is that scrupulous about locking doors behind her. All he has to do is get inside the building.

 

 

He hoists Illyria in his arms and heads up the walkway. He leans on several doorbells, all to apartments on the upper floor, so there's less chance of someone stepping out to see who's there. When a voice crackles over the speaker he calls out, "Delivery!" and the buzzer signals him in.

 

 

He's almost to Wes's door when a neighbor's pops open and a head pops out, decked in pink plastic curlers. "Hi there," Xander chirps, hoping his innocent tone doesn't sound as false to her as it does to him. "Wes asked me to bring his sister home from the airport. Nervous flier, she had a few of those little bottles on the plane."

 

 

The neighbor frowns. "Don't be ridiculous, I know Fred." _Shit._ Where's that famous big-city anonymity when you need it? "Who the hell are you? What's wrong with her?"

 

 

"She's fine, really. We had a few at the airport. Wes is traveling, and Fred got a little blue, that's all." He realizes suddenly how true that is, and has to choke back a hysterical giggle. "_I'm_ her brother. I'm just a little drunk."

 

 

"You sure don't sound like Fred's brother."

 

 

This time the nervous giggle escapes. "Oh, I know. Our mother complains about that all the time. They made me lose my accent at broadcasting school."

 

 

The neighbor's face brightens. "You're in broadcasting?"

 

 

"Radio. Alex Lavelle, with the soundtrack of your life." Every city has a Kiss 97, doesn't it? "Noon to five, on Kiss 97, Spokane. Listen, you know that song 'He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother'? Sisters are a whole different thing. If you don't mind--"

 

 

"Oh, no. It was nice meeting you. Can I help with the door?"

 

 

"No, really, I'm fine. I'll just lean her here for two seconds, and I'm in. I've got the key right here." Blocking her view by leaning his shoulder against the door frame, he tries the door and gusts a sigh of relief when it readily opens. He slings an arm over Illyria's shoulders. "C'mon, sweetie, just a few steps and you can lie down. You have a nice afternoon, now, ma'am." The door bangs closed behind them and he leans heavily against it, legs weak, clutching Illyria against him.

 

 

"You take unspeakable liberties," she says into his armpit.

 

 

Xander decides this is a good time to drop to his knees.

 

 

***

 

 

"I was losing strength, and was afraid I'd drop you," he says before Illyria can smite him. That's what gods like to do best, isn't it? "That's all."

 

 

"This is not the hive." Jerkily she looks around. "This is Wesley's chamber. It reeks strongly of his grief, but he is no longer here."

 

 

"That's right."

 

 

She raises her hand before her, turning it this way and that. "I still appear in the form of Winifred Burkle."

 

 

Xander nods. "You stayed that way even while you were unconscious."

 

 

"I do not understand."

 

 

"Holding the stasis -- it was too much for you."

 

 

Illyria grabs a fistful of his hair. "Cease your prattle."

 

 

"Ye--" He reconsiders mid-word, deciding this might constitute prattle. He ceases.

 

 

Releasing him, she turns away, walking farther into the room with a flat-footed gait. "Her form does not relinquish me. Her memories -- before, I could call them up if I wished, but now --" She jerks back toward him. "They shimmer before me, unbidden. Human thoughts and emotions, longings. Fear and pity and loathing and love. They crawl across my spirit, they afflict me like boils covering my skin. Tell me how to banish them."

 

 

"I can't."

 

 

She works on loathing. It seems to come pretty naturally, in fact, he'd swear he's seen it on her before. "You dare deny me."

 

 

"I don't know how. If humans knew how to banish them, we wouldn't be the messes we are."

 

 

This earns him a hard crack across the mouth. "You would compare your vile race to me. I should kill you for such effrontery."

 

 

He licks blood from his lip. "It wasn't what I -- There are things we try. We drink alcohol. Take drugs. Gamble."

 

 

"You dabble with slow death by weak poisons. With games that you pretend have some importance to their outcome by moving piles of paper from one person to another. They are all as windblown leaves."

 

 

"I won't argue there. We also flirt with danger. Drive too fast, jump out of airplanes, pick fights in bars. Pick up girls in bars, take them to our rooms for meaningless sex."

 

 

Her gaze sharpens on him. "You kind finds much attraction in this activity. Beyond the necessity of procreation."

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

"Why?"

 

_Ask not._ "We're wired that way."

 

 

She cocks her head. "'Wired?'"

 

 

"Um, our brains. They're made to work that way. To find certain things attractive. To feel desire and act on it, or try to."

 

 

"Winifred Burkle felt these desires. She acted on them with Charles Gunn. She longed to with Wesley, but she was thwarted --" She cuts off the rest of that thought, which seems to agitate her. "Wesley was to be my guide in this realm. He gave his word that he would teach me how to find my way in the human world."

 

 

Right about now he wishes he had the power of invisibility. He so does not love the direction this is going. "I -- I'm sorry."

 

 

"I care not for your protestations of sympathy. They would be worthless to me even had you meant them."

 

 

"I'm --" Right. The prattle.

 

 

She prowls in front of him, regarding him from different angles. "Perhaps you would suffice as a guide."

 

 

"No no no, I really don't think so. I don't exactly fit in with normal society." Illyria's fastening on him instead of six billion other humans seems to prove that.

 

 

"I find you a suitable substitute. You will abide with me until we find Wesley."

 

 

"Seriously. I don't understand humanity a good 92.7 percent of the time." Xander brightens. "You know who you need? Dr. Phil. He's an expert in humanity. Gives daily seminars in human behavior on television. He would be the perfect companion."

 

 

"I do not know this Dr. Phil. You have many qualities that make you acceptible. You accord me more respect than my last Qwa'ha Xahn, who was a disgrace to his station."

 

 

"Your last huh?"

 

 

"My Qwa'ha Xahn. You would call him a high priest. He was a pitiful excuse. This is what I am reduced to now, how the ancient ways have degraded, that he should not quake at the sight of me. That he should speak to me as a familiar. You at least fear me. Your impertinence, at least, is born of ignorance."

 

 

"Where is he now? I'm sure with the proper correction, he'd make a--"

 

 

She gestures him to silence. "He is dead."

 

 

That is so not the answer he was hoping for.

 

 

"It is a great pity that the relics of his station were not preserved on his death. Otherwise I would make you my Qwa'ha Xahn."

 

 

"Relics?" This is the only word that seems safe to echo.

 

 

"The sacred objects." She points to her chest. "They were sewn into his body with his viscera. They led me to him, like a beacon." She takes a step toward him, as if contemplating other things she could do with his viscera, but she falters, puts a hand to her head. "I would rest now. You will sit beside the sleep dais, attend me should I require anything."

 

 

He can't think of anything to do but follow.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander sits at Illyria's bedside as if she's a sick friend. Strange how few times he's done that in his lifetime -- at least when you consider how many dead friends he has. There was Willow, when she'd had her head bashed in by vampires. And Anya, that time ... her head was bashed in by vampires. Mostly the dead friends went fast, without a chance to offer some comfort, without even the chance to say goodbye.

 

 

But she's not a friend. Whatever Illyria might think, he doesn't owe her anything. But he feels oddly sorry for her. She's a shadow of what she once was, a traveler who's lost her way back to her own world. A stranger in a strange land, to get all science fictiony about it. Maybe it's that she reminds him of Anya, stuck in the guise of a teenager, her powers torn from her. Scary as she was _with_ them, she touched some protective instinct in him when they were gone.

 

 

Illyria's befuddled by the world, by humans, much as Anya was. Xander's got experience with that.

 

 

Maybe he _can_ be her guide. At least long enough to bring her to Giles so he can think of some way of dealing with her, as he put it, that doesn't require killing her.

 

 

Maybe he can help ease her into the world of humans.

 

 

Maybe he can not fuck it up so often this time.

 

 

***

 

 

Illyria goes out like a light, after laying herself out on her "sleep dais" as if she's lying in state. Not much sign of Fred (as if he can really say what Fred was like), despite Illyria's complaints. The god's keeping an iron grip, even in sleep.

 

 

"Illyria," he says softly, though it feels like risking a tongue-removal or a smiting. When there's no response, he slips his cell phone from his pocket, hits the speed dial for Cleveland.

 

 

Giles snatches it up on the first ring. "Yes?"

 

 

"I may have a few minutes," Xander says in his best golf announcer voice.

 

 

"Use them to get away from it if you can."

 

 

"I can't. Look, Giles, I think we'd better find some way of dealing with Illyria that isn't our usual style. There's still some humanity in her, some piece of this girl Fred she used as a host."

 

 

"That's impossible. Every text I've found on Illyria makes it quite clear that any host would be not only killed but utterly obliterated. The soul provides fuel for the fires of resurrection."

 

 

"Fuel."

 

 

"It was completely burned away. It must have been."

 

 

Xander gazes at her, lying with arms crossed over her chest. "You're wrong. Something happened, I don't know what or how. She's got memories and feelings that she says are Fred's."

 

 

"Then it's imperative that you escape. Surely you remember how dangerous Glory was. Dawn tells us she was assailed by human emotion. They maddened her. You run enormous risks by remaining within Illyria's reach. It may be risky to attempt an escape, but you must weigh it against the dangers you face biding your time."

 

_Biding your time. You will abide with me._ Giles and Illyria could actually have a conversation. For three or four seconds, anyway, before they killed each other.

 

 

She's deadly if she's completely inhuman, she's twice as deadly if she contains some small remnant of humanity. Now that Sunnydale's gone, it seems Giles has gone Council, clear down to the bone.

 

 

"You're right," Xander says. "I'd better go." He snaps the phone shut in the midst of an admonition from Giles.

 

 

He looks at Illyria. Asleep, unconscious, he's not sure which.

 

 

He abides.

 

 

***

 

 

Forty-five minutes later, Illyria's still lying in the same position, and Xander's restlessness gets the better of him. Slipping his shoes off, he pads quietly from the bedroom and checks out Wes's kitchen.

 

 

The fridge is dire. There are things inside that smell as dead as Wes was. Wes must've spent a few days away from his apartment, or at least took meals elsewhere. The cabinets yield more shelf-stable food, though it's arguable how much more edible it is compared to what's in the fridge. The man apparently lived on Lipton Cup-a-Soup -- chicken noodle, every single container. If that's not a sign of a man who'd given up on life even before he died, Xander doesn't know what is. There are also some cracker boxes and that evil yeast spread shit Giles sometimes indulges in. Tea -- nothing as convenient as bags -- and booze. Wes hasn't left so much of the latter as the former, but there are plenty of empties.

 

 

The freezer contains a sad-ass tray of shrunken ice cubes that smell faintly of garlic, and a Budget Gourmet frozen entree. Shrugging, he tears open the box and sticks the frozen dinner in the microwave. While he waits, Xander searches out a fork that doesn't have a fleck of crud on the tines, which he unearths right about the time the microwave pings.

 

 

Xander shovels in the beef Stroganoff while standing at the counter, considering life in this apartment. It doesn't take much imagination. He lived this way for a time after he left Anya at the altar, and again for a while after she died. Both times his friends helped pull him out of it, along with some kind of work. An apocalypse or two in the first case, the demolitions work after Sunnydale. He'd started with a local crew in Cleveland, swinging a sledgehammer to prep a high-rise for implosion. Grunt work, but it had been all he could get in construction until he got the paperwork nightmares sorted out -- and smashing things up had really suited him for a while. By the time Xander met Henri on a walk-through of the building and indulged his curiosity with a few questions that led to his current job, he was already starting to emerge from the black fog.

 

 

What had Wes had to lead him out of his own darkness? Xander wedges the empty Stroganoff tray into the nearly-overflowing trash and wanders out into the living room to see if he can find out.

 

 

Judging from the kitchen, he already suspects what the outcome will be.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander searches under the sink for the trash bags. After some rummaging he pulls out two and heads into the living room. Might as well make the place more habitable while he's looking around. He shoves the remains of microwave dinner entrees into one bag (and Xander suspects it says something about his own history that he can tell the brands apart by the shape and material of each tray) and the empties into another.

 

 

He finds old books scattered among the trash, lying open with sheaves of notes smeared around the table and floor nearby. Giles would be appalled at the careless treatment they've received -- hell, Xander's appalled on his behalf. He flips a few pages in one of the texts, hoping for some insight on dealing with Illyria. Suddenly he's hit by a weird wave of deja vu. This is one he's browsed through before on more than one occasion, on sleep-deprived, caffeine and sugar-fueled nights in the library or the Magic Box.

 

 

A wave of longing hits him like a fist to the chest. He misses that life, misses Sunnydale, misses Anya. Even misses Cordelia. Resentment surges through him for the fact that Wes had four years of her friendship that Xander didn't get, and he feels unreasonably pissed that he _(and Angel, don't forget him)_ let her die.

 

 

Xander moves some papers and books off a chair and drops into it. He's not sure how long he's been there, riding the wave of his grief, when a voice startles him.

 

 

"Again your grief surrounds you like a cloak."

 

 

He doesn't look around at her. "For a god who gives not a crap for our human ways, you sure are sensitive to our feelings."

 

 

"I find myself troubled by your sorrow, yet I do not know why."

 

 

"It's called empathy."

 

 

"What purpose does it serve?"

 

 

Xander turns toward her then, finding her standing in the doorway, one hand against the doorjamb to steady herself. She's still in the form of the brown-haired girl, her flowered dress creased. He feels his own wave of empathy, unwanted. "Damned if I know," he says.

 

 

***

 

 

"You told the truth," Illyria says. "You are a poor guide to the ways of your race. You can explain little that I wish to learn."

 

 

Xander shrugs. "If you don't want my peaches, don't go shaking my tree." Still, it seems like he's making progress. This may be the first time she hasn't said _vile race_.

 

 

"And half of what you say is incomprehensible."

 

 

"Just half? I'd say you're doing better than Giles." He rises and extends a hand toward her. "Here. Looks like you could stand to sit."

 

 

She cocks her head. "Stand to sit?"

 

 

"It's an expression. It means maybe you need to sit."

 

 

Her chin raises. "I need nothing." But she comes forward anyway and lowers herself regally, if slightly unsteadily, into the chair he vacated.

 

 

"Do you nee-- uh, want something to eat? I'll have to go out and get something. There's nothing I'd eat myself, much less feed a god."

 

 

"I require no food or drink. This shell no longer operates with such coarse bodily functions. Its internal organs have been burned away to make room for my essence."

 

 

Xander pauses in his idle gathering of Wes's papers into a pile. "Did that happen before or after Fred died?"

 

 

"The process resulted in her death. It was necessary."

 

 

She'd died in agony, Wes had said. Yeah, he imagines so. He pushes back a wave of anger. "I've been wondering about Fred's memories. If she was consumed that completely in the, uh, fires of resurrection, shouldn't her memories be too? Wasn't her brain burned away too?"

 

 

"This is how it should have been. At the very first, this was so."

 

 

"But something happened?" What the hell could happen to reverse her soul being vaporized?

 

 

"Winifred Burkle's memories had been altered -- so had Wesley's, and Charles's -- a large number of people. The true memories were contained in a mystical stasis field. I was present when they were released, and Winifred Burkle's flew back into her body."

 

 

"They were altered --?"

 

 

"The red-skinned demon was responsible, at Angel's behest. Vail removed their memories of Connor, Angel's son, and recreated a new history."

 

 

A son? Angel? Wasn't that impossible? "Why would he erase people's memories of his son?"

 

 

"The boy was feral. Half insane. Vail gave him new memories as well. A different life with a family. I grow weary of this topic." That's Illyria. Perfect companion for any guy with limited social skills. You never have to worry about the subtle cues.

 

 

Xander nods. "So you got back all her memories of this Connor."

 

 

"And more. All her memories were bound to those. They were made available to me if I chose to appear as Winifred Burkle. But now -- I find them difficult to push away."

 

 

"Maybe if you talked about them instead of fighting them they might stop crowding in on you."

 

 

She regards him. "This seems an unlikely outcome."

 

 

"I know," he admits. "But it does actually seem to work for most humans."

 

 

***

 

 

"Winifred Burkle's memories are as ubiquitous and oppressive as the atmosphere of this world of humans. Yet I do not speak of the air with every breath."

 

 

"Humans do. Well, not every breath. But you'd be amazed at how much conversation we can squeeze out of the weather. _Hot enough for ya?_ _Hey, how about this rain?_"

 

 

Illyria's mouth twists in scorn. "What possible purpose do such inane commentaries serve?"

 

 

"You're big on purpose, aren't you? They _don't_ really serve -- wait. They do. Comments like that are social signals. We meet strangers all the time, and we don't come out and say 'I mean you no harm' -- at least not very often. In normal circumstances, you say something meaningless to convey that. The weather provides an easy common ground." Xander slips a page of notes into one of the opened books on the table. He winces at the soft crack of the spine as he closes it.

 

 

"Wesley makes that same pained expression when the texts make that sound."

 

 

Xander closes the other two books lying open. "He's a book person. I always believed books are like people to them."

 

 

"You say 'them' as if you are not one of their number, yet you treat the texts with the same care Wesley would."

 

 

He smiles. "I spent a lot of years doing research with a book person. You learn the habits or pay the price."

 

 

Illyria's doll-eyes regard him with unsettling intensity. "This is what you mean when you speak of the effect of uttering one's memories. When I encountered you a moment ago your grief was fresh, but now you smile."

 

 

He cocks his own head to study her. That was stunningly astute. "What's weird is it was more or less the same set of memories having both effects. Objects trigger memories for us, like the books. Or sometimes it's the senses. Smell or taste or sound..." A realization occurs to him. "You were just doing it yourself."

 

 

"What do you speak of?"

 

 

"You just brought up a memory yourself. The sound of old books and Wes's expression. It stirs up emotion, doesn't it?"

 

 

Her expression closes down. "I do not waste my energies on such worthless, fleeting states."

 

_Sure she doesn't._ Time for an indulgent lie. "You're very lucky that way."

 

 

***

 

 

Xander pulls back from his lie -- and Illyria's -- by stacking Wes's books next to his notes, then continuing to clear the bottles, microwave trays and takeout containers scattered around the room.

 

 

Illyria idly watches his movements, but after a while Xander turns back from groping for a bottle under the couch and finds her staring at the door, unseeing.

 

 

"He would not permit her entry," she murmurs. Her voice is softer than usual, but it's still clearly Illyria, not Fred. "Winifred Burkle came to his door because she was afraid for him. His anguish was so strong she nearly choked on it." Illyria puts a hand to her own throat. "But he would not let her pass."

 

 

Xander remains frozen, bottle in hand. Any movement, any word from him, and he fears she'll shut down again.

 

 

"She let go of her fear _of_ him so completely, she sought him out because she was worried for him, not herself. She knew the kind of man he truly was. She had faith in his goodness." Her gaze returns to Xander, troubled. "But he no longer did."

 

 

He takes the risk, because he wants to know more. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

 

 

To his surprise, she deigns to answer. "There was a demon Angel and his friends sought to vanquish. Its touch robbed men of any veneer of civilization, caused them to behave savagely toward any woman they encountered, to kill if they could. Both Wesley and Charles came into contact with its blood. They were maddened."

 

 

"And they hurt Fred?"

 

 

"They tried. Charles fought the madness long enough to hand her a weapon, and she neutralized him. Wesley would have killed her, but she prevailed through her own ingenuity. Wesley could not face what he had attempted to do."

 

 

"But he was possessed, wasn't he?"

 

 

"He never quite believed so. He thought the demon brought forth something within him." Illyria's voice takes on the soft twang of Fred's. "He was never really the same after that."

 

 

Xander thinks about his own possession. Maybe he was lucky to be young and stupid, sure enough of himself that he never doubted himself in the aftermath. He was definitely lucky that there was no one who was likewise possessed but fought harder to hang onto his humanity. It would be a hard mirror to look into. "But she forgave him."

 

 

"She did, but he would not accept it. I believe he had the yen for Winifred Burkle even then, but he would not act on it."

 

 

Xander feels an unexpected pang of sympathy for Wes. He get this: loving someone, yearning for her, but feeling he can bring her nothing but misery. That he doesn't deserve her, or happiness.

 

 

"Why does your gaze alter in such a fashion? You do not see what is before you, but your attention is engaged. Wesley did this also."

 

 

So did she; funny she hadn't noticed this human response in herself.

 

 

He stifles a sigh. There are moments he'd just like to have a feeling or two without it being a goddamn teaching moment. "That usually means something triggered a memory."

 

 

"Memory? But I do not believe you were present when Wesley was possessed. Winifred Burkle has no recollection of you that I can access."

 

 

"No. I wasn't there. But I've had experiences that weren't unlike that." He shoves a few empties into the recycling bag, hoping that will signal the end of the topic.

 

 

Not, to use Illyria's phrase, a likely outcome. "Tell me of them. Perhaps they will help me better understand Wesley."

 

 

"I don't think they will."

 

 

She glares, though without the big blue doll eyes it's not as chilling. "That is not for you to decide. I have stated what I require."

 

 

Smothering a sigh, Xander ties the top of the bag closed. "I was possessed once."

 

 

"By a demon, such as Wesley was?"

 

 

"Animal. I'd stumbled onto some kind of Masaai ritual. I did things I'm not proud of."

 

 

"Did these things make you question your goodness as Wesley did?"

 

 

"Not that much. I've been trying to figure out why. Maybe because I was only 16 when it happened. Humans at that age -- well, there's very little that is under your control when you're a teenager. Everything's dictated by your parents, by school policy -- not to mention your raging hormones. It was easy to believe that was just one more thing that was out of my hands. Later on, though ..."

 

 

Illyria cocks her head. "You were possessed again?" Her tone indicates this was careless of him.

 

 

"No. But there was a demon who showed me a future it said was mine. It showed me someone who was unhappy and bitter and violent. I could see all that being inside me. I believed what it showed me. I backed away from the woman I loved, same as Wes backed off from Fred."

 

 

Her gaze sharpens. "Do you believe this could be the nature of Wesley's actions now? Perhaps he has absented himself because he doubts his worthiness."

 

 

Here's where it gets tricky. As in _Wrong answer earns you an agonizing smiting as a consolation prize_. But something convinces Xander she deserves better than a lie. He sets aside the trash bag and gives Illyria his full attention. "I don't think so," he says softly. "I think that's about Fred."

 

 

He holds his breath, waiting to be smited. Smitten? Smote? Whatever. Waiting for a first-hand look at his viscera.

 

 

***

 

 

Illyria regards him for a long moment. "You no longer cower before me."

 

 

True. The sub act had fallen away somewhere along the line. "Um, no. Guiding and cowering seem mutually exclusive."

 

 

"And you have ceased telling me placating lies."

 

 

Xander nods. _World, meet steaming viscera._ "Look, I know from experience. Pretending is more painful in the end. And letting your friends pretend for you -- it's just humiliating when you finally do face up."

 

 

Her head jerks toward him in her birdlike way. "_Your friends_," she quotes.

 

 

Shit, that was careless. It's exhausting, watching every tiny nuance of everything he says. "_Other people_ is what I meant."

 

 

"In the time when I held sway over this world, friends were unknown. Gods clashed and disembowled one another on fields of battle. Other gods looked on it as sport, while lesser beings trembled. I was worshipped and feared in equal measure by the cowering masses. I knew enmity from others of my kind, and rare alliances. But friendship? The very notion would have been absurd."

 

 

Well, hey. If his bowels are going to be dissed, it's nice to know it's a death fitting for ancient gods. "Yeah, I guess that's one of those weird human quirks."

 

 

"Your friends are important to you?"

 

 

"I literally wouldn't be alive without them. But it's more than that. I can't imagine how lonely I would have been without them."

 

 

Illyria rises from her chair and drifts toward the window. There's a little park out there, across the street from Wes's building. "Winifred Burkle lived for a time without friends. A span of years that seemed to stretch on forever. The loneliness and the torment drove her mad."

 

 

"Oh."

 

 

"It was finding friends that eventually drew her out of her madness. Wesley. Angel and Charles. Cordelia and the green-skinned demon, Lorne. They refused to leave her to her own fractured world."

 

 

"People can be stubborn that way."

 

 

Turning from the window, she regards Xander. "I believe it would please me to have a friend. You will serve."

 

 

***

 

_Friends._ If that isn't the weirdest turn of events ever -- well, no, it isn't. In a long damn time, though. He'd definitely vouch for that.

 

 

Maybe not a mixed blessing, though. The people who come right out and announce in so many words that you're their new best friend are almost always the ones who confer instant social liability. Paste-eaters. The ones who peed themselves in math class. And that was in high school.

 

 

Mentally comparing ancient gods to schoolyard losers isn't exactly the key to longevity, Xander reminds himself. "I'm honored to be chosen." A slightly safer position than Wes's role as object of the yen. He hopes. "Humans have their ways and traditions of friendship. I'd be happy to act as your guide in that respect too." No response, so he plunges on. "For example, friends don't remove their friends' viscera or tongues. Or really talk about it."

 

 

"Angel and Spike threatened one another with these things all the time."

 

 

"Spike and Angel? I wouldn't call them friends."

 

 

"They sought one another's company and shared their burdens. They fought and died at one another's side. Is this not what friends do?"

 

 

In his world, it is. "You have a point. They were vampire friends, though. Vampire friends can talk about viscera, but it's not really done in human circles. We're a little more breakable."

 

 

Illyria nods. "Your kind is exceptionally frail. These bodies--" She raises Fred's arm and turns it this way and that -- "it is remarkable that you survive in them for any length of time. This body in particular -- I was meant to transcend it, to shape it for my own use. Now I fear I am trapped in the shell I have made of it."

 

 

"You've tried to resume your, uh, original form?"

 

 

Her eyes blaze. "What you saw was never my original form. My glory would have plunged you into terror and despair. You would have disembowled yourself before my splendor."

 

 

And more with the d-word. It's going to take some doing to break this habit of hers. "Sorry. The form you had when I met you. You can't resume that?"

 

 

"Do you think that I would _choose_ to dwell in this fragile form? Since I was struck down in the hive, I have been encased in this body no matter how I struggle to transform it. My Qwa'ha Xahn is dead, the relics destroyed. I have no locus of power outside this form." She turns her gaze on Xander. "I am trapped in this shell, and I fear I will die."

 

 

***

 

 

Before he can even react to Illyria's statement, she scowls. "I did not intend to make such an admission. You will purge this from your memory."

 

 

Preferably before she decides to do it for him. But instead of following her command like any smart person would do, he gently says, "But that's what friends do. They say things they wouldn't necessarily tell the rest of the world. Our fears and regrets. Just like you said about Angel and Spike. The sharing their burdens part, not the threats of bodily harm."

 

 

"What will this accomplish?"

 

 

"Well, it depends what you're looking for. Sometimes it's good just to get things off your chest."

 

 

Illyria glances down at the flowered bodice of Fred's dress, then back up at Xander, bemused.

 

 

"An expression. To vent. Wait, that's an expression too. To unburden yourself. Sometimes that's enough. That's often what women want when they talk about their problems. And then men get in trouble, because instead of listening, we throw a bunch of suggested solutions at her. That's usually what men are after when we share our troubles -- which isn't all that often. I'm, uh, not sure what approach to take with you." Best to cut off there, he decides. No need to say he can't figure out if Illyria's male, female or neither.

 

 

"It seems improbable that _you_ can offer _me_ tangible solutions."

 

 

Annoyance gets the better of his mouth. "Again I say, if you don't want my peaches, nobody's forcing you to shake my tree."

 

 

"Why do humans require so many expressions? Is it anathema to your kind to speak plainly and directly?"

 

 

"Pretty much. Here's something plain and direct. I know someone who might be able to help. He comes from the same background as Wes. Big on the ancient tomes, the musty annals of mystical wisdom. He might know some way to keep you alive."

 

 

The only drawback, of course, being that Giles might want her dead.

 

 

***

 

 

Illyria turns from the window and sits at the table, steadying herself with a hand on its surface as she lowers herself into the chair. "Perhaps I should deem myself fortunate to gain my release from this disgusting world," she says. "Overrun as it is with humans and their machines choking the air with their poisonous vapors, fouling the streams with their effluent. It is as if your kind must touch everything around them in order to believe in their own existence."

 

 

"Guess it's a side effect of walking around as these vulnerable bags of organs," Xander says. He waits for a response, but none is forthcoming. "But you don't consider yourself lucky."

 

 

"I have had thousands of years of oblivion. I woke to find my temple had crumbled to dust, my armies suffered the same fate. Despite my weariness with the world as it has become, I have no wish to rush back into the waiting void."

 

 

"'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'"

 

 

Illyria's gaze narrows.

 

 

"It's a poem. About hanging onto every shred of life as fiercely as you can. I actually only know two lines from it, but it's really famous."

 

 

"Humans did not write poetry when I last walked the earth. Their every moment was a fight for survival. Poetry was a luxury none could afford."

 

 

"Guess in a way it's another effluent we put out into the world."

 

 

"You are a strange creature," Illyria informs him. "You have little in common with Wesley."

 

 

"That doesn't surprise me."

 

 

"Why do you stay with me and seek to help me? In Wesley's case, his grief compelled him, at least until he could bear it no longer. Why did you not leave me when I collapsed at the hive? You have no knowledge of Winifred Burkle, no associations with this shell."

 

 

Good question, one he ought to be going over with a shrink someday soon. Though he knows the answer, really. "You remind me of someone I miss. The ways of humans knocked her for a loop sometimes too. That's another expression," he hastily adds. "I mean they confused her."

 

 

She stares at him a moment. "Your vengeance demon."

 

 

"Former," he amends.

 

 

"How did she die?"

 

 

"Sword fight. She was helping save the world." Xander's throat tightens without warning and his eyes brim. "I never get to say that," he says softly. "People know I had a girlfriend who died, but I can't tell them the truth about how. She deserves recognition for what she did, but I can't be honest with most people."

 

 

She rises from her chair and reaches toward him. There's nothing of Illyria in her expression, which is tender and sympathetic. Is this what Fred was like? No wonder Wes was crazy in love with her.

 

 

She sketches her fingers through his hair. "Of course that makes it harder," she murmurs, her accent laced with sugar. "Having to lie about her just encases you in your sorrow."

 

 

He wants to turn away from her empathy, roughly brush away the tears that threaten to fall.

 

 

But he can't, and he doesn't.

 

 

***

 

 

Fred lifts a hand to his cheek, her brown eyes warm and liquid. She traces her thumb over a tear track -- the left eye is always more prone to spilling over -- and then wanders to his lower lip. He tastes the salt of his own grief.

 

 

Xander catches her hand in his. "I'm not sure this is such a good idea." It's a lie: he's totally certain that it's possibly the worst idea in the history of ever. Still, he doesn't release her hand, and she doesn't pull it away.

 

 

"Why not?"

 

 

Because it's confusing the hell out of him to find himself attracted to her. He can't tell if it's Fred or Illyria who's starting these feelings churning in him, or just old echoes of Anya. Because she -- Fred or Illyria or both -- is hung up on Wes, not him. Because he's breakable and who's more likely to forget that than an ancient god?

 

 

"We should call Giles, that's why," he stammers. "If you think you could die, we shouldn't waste any time."

 

 

She stays as she is, gazing up at him. There seems to be nothing but Fred in her right now -- as much as he can tell, without any knowledge of her. "I do understand this," she says. "How very lonely the demon-fighting life is, because you can't be yourself with more than a handful of people. How your grief has to be hidden or repackaged to something more understandable when you're around people who don't get it. All you want to do is talk about these feelings you have, and instead you're forced to concoct some kind of backstory to explain how they died and who they were to you in the first place. And sometimes things get really bad and you isolate yourself from the people who _do_ get you."

 

 

He thinks of the Scoobies. _No._ He's not isolated from them, he's just taken a different path. He sees them often, talks to them all the time.

 

 

"I did that, you know. Ran away from Angel and Wes and Charles. Away from my parents. I didn't want them to see what I'd become, didn't believe they could understand my life, not in a million years."

 

 

"Parents. Well, yeah."

 

 

"No, my parents are the greatest people. And they actually know about Angel Investigations and everything." Fred shakes her head. "I don't know what I'm trying to say. Or I do, I just don't know how to say it." She extracts her hand from his, touches his face again. "Just -- I guess -- that I know what you're going through. I know how strange and lonely this life is."

 

 

He closes his eyes. _Strange and lonely._ Yeah.

 

 

Suddenly there are lips on his, soft and warm. Startled, Xander pulls back.

 

 

"Fred--"

 

 

But Fred's not alone in there. She gives her head that birdlike tilt. "I wish to experience this."

 

 

***

 

 

"Illyria." His brain won't supply anything beyond this preamble. Possibly because he's in no great hurry to utter his last words.

 

 

"I would indulge in sexual activity for sport. With you."

 

 

"No!" Maybe he needed to take a little more time over his words. "Not for sport."

 

 

"You are angered. But I have no interest in procreating with you. And this shell no longer contains the necessary organs for giving birth, even if I were to permit it."

 

 

"That's not what I mean. I don't have sex 'for sport.' I'm not built that way."

 

 

This assertion provokes a hand where he least expected it.

 

 

Xander leaps back. "Hey!"

 

 

"You seem to possess the requisite parts, and they appear to be in working order. You show physiological responses indicating arousal."

 

 

"I know," he stammers. This isn't going well. "What I mean is, sex is about more than sport, even when it's not for procreation. At least it is for me." Odd that he should protest this so vehemently, when for the past few months he's been Sporty Sex Spice, indulging in a one night stand after the completion of each job. "It's about closeness, about conveying your feelings." It's what it used to be about, before he lost his girl, lost his compass.

 

 

"You engage in meaningless distinctions. Sexual activity is for procreation, or it is for sport. If you insist you must find some purpose in it, tell yourself it is for instruction. I would understand what drives your entire race." She makes another play for his package.

 

 

He evades again. "There are rules."

 

 

"There are none that I can see. A man in a uniform appears at a woman's door and states that he has come to repair her cable, and then they rut. The same thing occurs when a man brings a box bearing a round piece of flatbread to the door. I have observed this."

 

 

Great. Illyria's been getting her socialization from Skinemax. He hasn't got a chance.

 

 

"Those are movies. Movies bear almost no relation to real life. I was a flatbread delivery man, and believe me, I barely got tips, much less sex. Those movies are made because sex with no rules seems very appealing when you aren't having any."

 

 

"Explain these rules to me. Quickly -- I grow impatient."

 

 

***

 

 

His brain turns to sludge.

 

 

"Explain to me your protocols for rutting."

 

 

Xander has to fight an urge to laugh hysterically. He wills himself to keep a straight face. "Protocols for rutting. Okay. There are a lot of considerations, some of them all-around good citizenship, and some of them based on a particular situation. You have to be thoughtful, no matter how urgent your body is about what it wants. Consent, for example. That's a huge consideration. Did she say yes? Is she old enough to mean yes? Uncrazy enough to mean yes? Sober enough to mean yes? Not under some backfired love spell?"

 

 

"This is not the concern of gods."

 

 

"It's not always the concern of humans, either, but it may spell the difference between being a shit and being an okay person." _Okay, not so smart. You've just called your lovelorn god a shit. Moving right along...._ "There are also health issues. If your partner's health is at stake, your needs take a backseat. If yours is iffy, you have to use protection, or lay off completely."

 

 

She maintains the unblinking stare, which unnerves him.

 

 

"Uh, also, a blowjob is not an adequate payment for a flatbread delivery. Even if the delivery guy would enjoy it, he's not exactly going back to pay it forward to the manager."

 

 

"This is not terminology I have acquired. You will explain it."

 

 

"That part was a joke."

 

 

Illyria scowls. "You profess to educate me in the ways of human sexual conduct and instead you make sport of me?"

 

_Nice move, Harris. You've just proved you're a sporty guy._ "No. _No._ I make jokes when I get nervous. Not that what I said wasn't true. It's definitely one that falls into the 'funny because it's true' category."

 

 

"Then you will explain that part of it which I do not understand."

 

 

"Um. Okay. Blowjob is slang for oral sex. When a guy is the recipient, and a girl -- _woman_, because we're talking over the age of consent --" as if this isn't hard enough, he has to be completely literal -- "Or another guy --" He fades out, hoping she can fill in the blanks.

 

 

Amazingly, she does. "This activity serves no procreative purpose. It is strictly for sport."

 

 

"Uh, yes, I guess that would be true. Which brings me to a related protocol. Reciprocation. If you receive, you should also give. Unless there's been some prior negotiation, but even then it should all come out even over the course of the relationship." This isn't easy, pulling together a lifetime of trial and error into a public service announcement. "You have to be sure you're not taking advantage of someone when they're vulnerable. Which is similar to consent, but not always exactly equivalent."

 

 

"I grow weary of this recitation. I wish to proceed with the practical demonstration."

 

 

***

 

 

"Ah. Well. Here's where the protocols stop being merely theoretical. There are reasons why we shouldn't, uh, demonstrate."

 

 

"Have I not said I grow bored with your protocols? Rules are intended for lesser creatures. They allow them to make their way in a world where stronger beings may crush them. These rules do not apply to me."

 

 

"The thing is, they mostly apply to the stronger partner, to protect the weaker. So I guess I'm arguing that point." _Life, it's been nice knowing you._ "So first we need to think about your health. You've been losing strength since you stopped time at the airport. You've actually said you may be dying. How do we know you're up for this? I still say we should be calling Giles instead of wa-- uh, spending time on this."

 

 

Illyria flicks a hand in dismissal. "I have seen the rutting of humans. It lasts but the blink of an eye." _Ouch._ "In my time there were demons whose coupling lasted for months as humans count time. Each shriek of pain and pleasure echoed through the valleys for days. Their rutting lasted until one was dead -- and sometimes beyond that point."

 

_Good times._ "Ah. Well, that's _not_ a sign of successful rutting in the human world. We'll give up a little of the marathon performance to have everyone alive and happy at the end."

 

 

"Undoubtedly. You are given to seeking a physician's care if your erections last for four hours."

 

 

How much TV does she _watch_?, he wonders.

 

 

"We will couple, and then you may call this Giles."

 

 

Xander takes a breath. "There's one other thing." It's a deal-breaker. It's probably a Xander-breaker too. "We have a big consent problem."

 

 

"I see no such issue. I have chosen you as my guide, and you have acted as such. To copulate is but a continuation of this."

 

 

This is _not_ going in a good direction. "The most important protocol surrounding sex says either partner can draw the line at any time. You can consent to anything up to a certain point and _still_ decide that's as far as you'll go. No means no -- that's the biggie. But I'm not talking about myself. Here's the deal-breaker -- there's a piece of Winifred Burkle in you, and we don't know exactly how much. If there's two of you in that body, jumping into bed with you is wrong."

 

 

***

 

 

Xander waits for a smiting, or to be dragged bodily to bed and straddled. (Well, it's not like _that_ has never happened before. He wonders how much rougher a diminished god could be than a full-strength slayer.) As her gaze bores into him, he grows more nervous and at the same time more inappropriately aroused. As he and Anya discovered, fear of death could be a pretty potent aphrodisiac.

 

 

When she finally speaks her voice is low. "I find I am strangely moved by your concern for Winifred Burkle. I do not understand why this should be so. Her shell is but a vessel to serve my needs."

 

 

"I think that's a sign that she's in there."

 

 

"When I took her, I left nothing but a spark, which flickered out as I burst forth. There should be no memories, no emotions. They are but obstacles to me."

 

 

"I think the breaking of the memory spell started all this. Then when you collapsed at the airport it gave her more room. Though it could be she got a little stronger each time you took her form. You started out wearing her, but maybe now she's wearing you."

 

 

Rage flashes in her eyes, and not a little fear. Fred's delicate hand cracks across his face, causing tears to spring up in his left eye. "This is blasphemy."

 

 

"I'm sorry to offend. I thought you wanted me to be honest. Just offering a possibility here." It would be a good idea to remember that the one time Buffy got mixed up with an ancient god, she ended up dead.

 

 

Illyria regards him, her breath heaving in and out. Regret gusts through him that he hasn't called his girls, as he normally does after a job. His last contact with them will be filtered through Giles, who will no doubt inform them he'd lost all reason before he was torn into tiny shreds.

 

 

"There is much that remains," she says. She falls silent again, her gaze turning inward.

 

 

Xander releases a breath.

 

 

"Her thoughts bleed into mine, her feelings course through me, grow entwined with my own motivations and desires. Living with desires is easy enough if you're a god, but this -- to have such a profusion of emotions attached to each and every one -- I feel as though I am cracking open."

 

 

***

 

 

Xander remembers Dawnie telling him she heard pretty much the same thing from Glory. Not comforting, but then, she was fourteen and Xander's got a few years on her. And a hell of a lot of experience as life coach to the recently humanized.

 

 

"You'll be okay," he tells Illyria. "Humans handle the same thing -- a good 72 percent of the time, at least -- and you're a god. It's a challenge, but I totally believe you've got it in you."

 

 

"Do humans appreciate your false encouragement?" Illyria says sourly.

 

 

Xander grins. "Sometimes. One of the ways we deal with the barrage of emotions is a large dose of self-delusion. Sometimes our friends help with the delusion. It's knowing when to participate and when to bring the reality that makes someone a true friend."

 

 

"You also distract yourselves with meaningless sexual activity. You described this behavior before. I find this infinitely preferable to platitudes and insincere encouragement."

 

 

Why does _everything_ he says come back around to bite him in the ass?

 

 

"In spite of myself, I find I am desirous of your peaches."

 

 

He blinks.

 

 

"You have told me you wish me not to shake your tree unless I have interest in your peaches. I would partake of them now."

 

 

***

 

 

This ranks with Anya's "We must have intercourse so I can get over you" seduction. Except (and who'd have thought he could say this?) infinitely more complicated.

 

 

"Illyria--"

 

 

"I wish to commence rutting. You will do as I command." She moves toward him.

 

 

Xander holds up a hand. "I don't care what the movies show. Meaningless sexual activity without foreplay is bad meaningless sexual activity. You can't jump right into the rutting."

 

 

"What is foreplay?"

 

 

"It's the little things you do to get yourself and your partner in the mood. Kissing. Touching. Pillow talk."

 

 

Illyria scowls. "I care nothing for moods. I seek information in the form of experience. There is no need for delay."

 

 

"I have to disagree there. It's not just mood. There are physiological changes that help things along. Foreplay gets those going. Fred must have some memories--"

 

 

Bad gambit. Illyria's eyes flash. "I wish my own experience, not to tap into second-hand memories of Winifred Burkle. Very well. Demonstrate this foreplay."

 

 

Maybe she has the right idea. It's all about delay. Maybe he can stall things long enough that -- well, what? That a convenient apocalypse happens along?

 

 

"If you let me take the lead, I'll show you."

 

 

"You presume to place conditions on your obedience?"

 

 

"A guide who isn't allowed to take the lead can't be much of a guide." Before she can answer he lifts a hand to her face, stroking the back of his fingers along the smooth skin of her cheek. "Just let me give you the lay of the land," he murmurs.

 

 

"Your touch disturbs the tiny hairs on the skin of my face. What purpose does it serve?"

 

 

"Enough with the play-by-play. Close your eyes and concentrate on what you're feeling."

 

 

She frowns as if working out a difficult problem.

 

 

"Forget the word concentrate. Give yourself up to what you're feeling -- that's what I meant. Experience, don't think. If you like something, you can say so." He feathers his hand along her face, teasing his thumb over her lower lip. "Close your eyes," he whispers.

 

 

Her eyes snap shut as if she's been told to wait for a surprise.

 

 

"The goal," he murmurs, "is to fall into a kind of dreamy state at first, but let the heat build and build. Kisses are good for this. Just receive them at first." He plants a soft kiss on her unyielding lips. He offers some others, brief and undemanding without being dry and brotherly. He's about to escalate it a notch when Illyria says, "I see no purpose to this activity. They do not show this on the rutting films."

 

 

"That's because you're watching the highlights film, not the game. Believe me, it serves a purpose. It tells both bodies what's coming. Sets all kinds of physical preparations in motion. Trust me, and try not to question the reason for what's going on. That short-circuits the body's responses." He plants another soft kiss. "Now, start kissing back. Tiny sips, like this."

 

 

She nips at him. Peck, peck, peck.

 

 

"Soften your lips a little. Relax." He draws back and strokes his thumb across her lips. "Don't start off with a rhythm, let one build." He cups her jaw and draws in again.

 

 

Her lips are a touch more pliant this time, and she takes an experimental sip.

 

 

"That's it," he murmurs against her lips. "See how nice it feels?"

 

 

She allows him a few more kisses. "It is not unpleasant," she breathes against his mouth.

 

 

Strangely enough, this is true for Xander too. "That's good. So now we move things forward a little. A little deeper kissing, some activity with the hands."

 

 

He slides an arm around her waist and pulls her body close to his.

 

 

***

 

 

The next thing he knows, Illyria's clutching a handful of ass.

 

 

"_Whoa!_ Easy there. At this stage touching is more about teasing, stoking the fire."

 

 

She unhands his ass. "Demonstrate."

 

 

He strokes his hand down the curve of her back and the swell of her ass, finishing with a slight drag of thumbnail over the thin fabric of her dress. He's rewarded by the slight intake of her breath.

 

 

"And now it's time for an introduction to the tongue," Xander says. "The tongue is all about making promises. The best ones aren't verbal."

 

 

"You try my patience with your incoherent babbling."

 

 

Xander places a finger over her lips. "The kissing, when done properly with the tongue, is the coming attractions trailer for the rutting." He slips his hand behind her neck and draws her toward him. He makes a playful introduction of his tongue to the inside of Illyria's mouth, following it with some nipping and sucking at her lower lip. "Relax," he whispers. "This is supposed to be fun. See? Promise of good times ahead." Her lips part, softening. "On the other hand," he murmurs in between kisses, "if the guy uses his tongue like a dental probe, he's probably going to pound away like a jackhammer."

 

 

Illyria frowns. "Pounding is not desirable?"

 

 

"It's a speed. It's not the only speed. You _might_ use it to get over the top, but you don't start out there."

 

 

"But the rutting films--"

 

 

"They're fantasy. They're not always good fantasy." His fingers find the zipper pull at the nape of her neck, and he slides it down along her spine. He slips his hand inside the opening and traces his fingers back up the path they've just traveled. She shivers against him.

 

 

"I will remove these garments." She starts to step out of his embrace, but he steps back toward her.

 

 

"There's no hurry. No hurry at all. Half the fun comes from getting past the obstacles." He deepens his kisses and she opens to him, begins tasting him back. "Very nice," he murmurs. "You have a lot of native talent."

 

 

She pulls at his shirt, and a button zings across the room, skittering on the wood floor. "You should have an aperture on your garments like that on mine. It unfastens more readily."

 

 

He smiles against her lips. "I have one. We'll get to that." His fingers find the back of her brassiere and he shows off one of his own talents, not native but painstakingly cultivated -- he unfastens her bra with one hand.

 

 

She gasps. "My breastplate!"

 

 

"You don't need your armor." He slips one of the dress straps -- and the brastrap beneath -- down her shoulder. "Look how fine," he says, cupping her now-bared breast in his hand. He strokes a thumb over her nipple and it tightens into a soft knot of flesh. "So pretty." He introduces his tongue here as well.

 

 

"_Ah!_ You surely cannot seek to suckle there. The milk glands of this shell--"

 

 

He lays his fingers over her lips. "Talking about the shell? And its organs?" _\--Not to mention poor dead Fred--_ "That's a definite mood killer. Suckling is just one of those seemingly pointless activities, and isn't limited to breasts."

 

 

Xander loosens the arm that circles Illyria's waist. He should call a halt to this. A deflated instructor is not going to take this lesson anywhere good. But Illyria makes a surprise move just then, showing a little classroom initiative. She draws one of his fingers into her mouth, teasing a gasp from him. She works it, and he recognizes some of his own moves. For some crazy reason, that realization makes his instructor sit up and take special notice.

 

 

"Your breathing grows irregular and your loins stir," she says. "These are the physiological changes you spoke of?"

 

 

***

 

 

"They're a start," Xander says. "Now pay attention to your responses. What's happening in your body?"

 

 

Again she frowns in concentration.

 

 

"Don't think," Xander tells her. "Feel. Close your eyes and feel what's happening."

 

 

"This is pointless diversion."

 

 

"It's not. This is _all_ about what you're feeling. Close your eyes." He turns his attention back to her breast and applies serious effort to making her feel something. "What's happening?" he murmurs.

 

 

"My breath quickens," she says in a husky voice.

 

 

"So it does." He doesn't ask how, if Illyria burned away all Fred's organs. He never asked how a dead guy could be a pack-a-day smoker, either.

 

 

"There is a swelling at my lips, and in my loins."

 

 

"Does it feel nice?"

 

 

"I do not know."

 

 

Xander slides the dress off her shoulders and lets it puddle on the floor. Dipping a hand into her panties, he says, "Yes. It feels very nice."

 

 

Illyria leans her head back, clutching at his upper arms. "What is this that you do?"

 

 

"My last girl had a cute little nickname for it." Strange that he can openly mention Anya without a second thought to Illyria's feelings. "She called it 'clitoral stimulation.'"

 

 

She writhes in response to his attentions, and he's certain there'll be bruises on his arms. "Oh," she utters, in a voice higher and breathier than Illyria's normal register. "Oh, my."

 

 

Xander's gaze jerks up toward her face. Her eyes are wide and her lips are parted, and he's not entirely sure who it is who's looking back at him. His breath catches and his rhythm falters. "We can stop anytime you say."

 

 

She blinks at him, and all he can think is _This is wrong, this is wrong._ Before he can withdraw and apologize and possibly shoot himself, she blinks again. "You will proceed," she says in a honeyed voice.

 

 

But he's still frozen, until she seizes his hand and grinds herself against it. Clumsily he tries to regain his tempo, and she starts crying out, little gasps and moans that sound more human than any of the responses she's shown till now. His rhythm meshes with hers and her cries pick up in tempo until she staggers back with one final cry and tangles her feet up in the dress. She falls half onto the sofa, her breath sawing sharply.

 

 

"Are you okay?" He's not quite sure if he's asking about her fall or something else entirely.

 

 

"I wish more instruction," she gasps. "Remove your raiments."

 

 

"My wha--?"

 

 

"Your garments. Remove them."

 

 

"The bed will be more comfortable," he begins, but Illyria settles herself more fully on the sofa.

 

 

"I wish to copulate now." The command is still in Fred's southern drawl, but clearly couched in Illyria speak. This is damn confusing, but at least the two of them seem to be on the same page. Not to mention the little professor, who's ready to spring into action.

 

 

She grabs him and guides him into her silky heat before he can enumerate even one of the reasons this is a bad, bad idea.

 

 

***

 

_Only a boy from Sunnydale can get into a three-way with only one partner. Scratch that. Only _I_ could manage that._

 

 

But as soon as he's buried himself inside her (them?), her awkward stiffness returns, and he's certain he's back in a plain old two-way.

 

 

She claps her hand onto his ass once more. "I desire you to penetrate deeper." Dirty talk of the gods. Weirdly, though, it does make things hotter.

 

 

He coaxes her leg with his hand, drawing it up into a position that gives him deeper access. "Rock a bit. Like those old blues songs say, like your back ain't got no bone."

 

 

She spasms beneath him like a cat trying to expell a hairball.

 

 

"Let's come back to the rocking later. Just let me take the lead."

 

 

Illyria subsides, and Xander sets up his own gentle rocking pace. "See?" He murmurs into her ear. "Slow and steady and sweet. Let the intensity build."

 

 

She forgets her newly aquired kissing and touching skills, lying beneath him with her arms flung out, lips parted, watching him with glazed eyes.

 

 

"Feel it building? All that delicious tension. It's like a sneeze. You know it's coming, and there's no way to stop it." Not at all true -- Anya was a genius at the thwarted orgasm game, keeping him crazy sometimes for _days_ \-- but that's an advanced lesson, and Illyria's at the Dick and Jane level. "Let it flow through you."

 

 

"Ah." Eyes closing, she tips her head back. "Ah. Ah. Ah."

 

 

Xander has a sudden flash to the Coneheads and Jane Curtin's monotoned _Ohhh, baby._ Trying to choke back laughter, he bites his own lip until he tastes a coppery trickle.

 

 

"_Ah. Ah._ This overwhelms me."

 

 

"It's all right. Just let go. Like in the movies." Adjusting her position, he takes it to pounding mode now.

 

 

She moves beneath him now, clutching at his arm. "I cannot hold--"

 

 

"That's the purpose. Lose yourself."

 

 

Illyria squirms. "_Ah!_ This terrifies me. Cease this, I comma--" She arches beneath him, crying out, and Xander's just a second or two behind.

 

 

Gasping, he wonders if he should withdraw now. Some instinct, however, tells him it would be more reassuring if he stays inside her for the moment. Eyes closed, she looks dewy, dreamy. He strokes her hair. "You see? Everything's all right."

 

 

"Oh god," she breathes.

 

 

He'd have thought maybe gods would say something else when they come, but if you're at the top of the pecking order--

 

 

Suddenly she hammers at his shoulder with the heel of her hand, and he decides now's the time to withdraw.

 

 

"Are you okay?"

 

 

"Get me something to write with!"

 

 

Okay, _not_ what he expected. "Something to--?"

 

 

She shoves him off the sofa, sitting up. "Pen. Paper."

 

 

"Illyria--"

 

 

"_Now._"

 

 

Xander scrambles up, starts looking around. He rummages through a cluttered desktop strewn with books and papers, but all the papers are covered in spidery writing. Snatching up a coffee cup jammed with pens and pencils, he turns toward her. "I can't find any blank paper."

 

 

She seizes the cup. "There's a little store on the corner, two blocks from here." She points in the general direction. "A dozen notebooks. More pens. _Go._"

 

 

Xander blinks at her.

 

 

"_Now_, or I shall write with my finger in your heart's blood."

 

 

That galvanizes him. "Sure. As soon as I find my raiments." He tugs on his pants and snatches up his shirt, then jams his bare feet into his shoes.

 

 

When he turns back to say he's going, he sees her with a fat marker in hand, writing on Wesley's blue wall.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander's driven around L.A. enough to know it'll take less time to go to the store on foot than to drive around looking for a parking space. Bonus: he'll have time to call Giles while he's walking. He pats down his pockets looking for the cellphone and groans when he realizes it's probably in his jacket pocket. Trust him to grab the wrong raiments.

 

 

Instead as he walks he worries at what this latest development means. He'd only gotten a glimpse of the wall before she'd flicked a look over her shoulder and snarled _Go!_, but it wasn't "Illyria + Xander 4-Ever." It looked like some crazy demon language. Or algebra, which was possibly the same thing. He wishes he could talk this through with Giles.

 

 

When he reaches the corner Illyria described -- or was that Fred? How would Illyria know where to find notebooks in Wes's neighborhood? -- he finds a small mom &amp; pop store with candies, sodas and basic groceries. Xander steps inside and asks where he'd find notebooks, then edges his way down the narrow aisle where he's directed.

 

 

After a moment of dithering between steno pads and homework-sized notebooks, he decides on maximum writing space. Illyria looked like a girl-god with a lot to say. Grabbing a fistful of pens, he heads to the counter, stopping short at the red-haired apparition he finds there.

 

 

"Willow?"

 

 

"Where the hell have you been, mister? You've been impossible to find. I hit a big mystic wall whenever I tried."

 

 

He laughs nervously. "It's a long story, Will." He shoves the pens and notebooks across the counter and pulls out his credit card.

 

 

"Giles made it sound like you were doing the Thelma and Louise with Glory's older cousin -- are you completely out of your mind?"

 

 

"It's not that dire. We haven't sailed off any cliffs." Unless you count one ginormous metaphorical one. "I need to get back."

 

 

"Get _back_? We've been trying to figure out how to rescue you."

 

 

Xander scrawls his signature on the credit card slip and leads the way outside, package bundled under his arm. "I don't think I need rescuing."

 

 

"You don't _think_?"

 

 

"It's complicated."

 

 

"Two words that get my vote as the most condescending all-purpose phrase in the English language." Her boots clack sharply on the pavement as she works to keep up with him. "Try me, I'm good at abstract thought. You've been kidnapped by some ancient god, but you've decided to be its new best friend?"

 

 

Irritation sweeps through him. "Something like that. I'm sure Giles wants to kill it, but I think there's a lot we could learn from it. From her."

 

 

Caught at the corner at a red light, he bounces on the balls of his feet waiting for a break in traffic. As he's about to step off the curb, Willow grabs his arm. "Would you please stop so we can have a conversation about this?"

 

 

"I can't. I have to get back. It's important." He turns back toward the street, but the flow of traffic has resumed, maybe doubled.

 

 

"Because there's this emergency supply of pens and notebooks you need to deliver?"

 

 

"Exactly. I can't explain, but--"

 

 

"'It's complicated.'"

 

 

"She might be going kind of crazy, and I might be kind of responsible." The light turns green and he sprints across the intersection.

 

 

She catches up to him. "Responsible? Xander, I have no idea what you're talking about."

 

 

He flashes her a fake smile. "Same as it ever was, right? Look, call Giles, will you? I was going to, but I left my cellphone back at the apartment. Tell him I'm okay, and we need to have a talk about Illyria." He gestures toward Wes's building. "I have to go."

 

 

"I'm coming. If I'm going to tell Giles, I need to see what I'm talking about."

 

 

"I don't that's the best idea."

 

 

"It's the only way you're getting rid of me."

 

 

He doesn't have time to stand here arguing. Mashing his thumb on Wes's bell, he waits for the buzzer that unlocks the front door. He hadn't locked the apartment door when he left, so the knob turns freely.

 

 

He takes a breath. This is not going to be good.

 

 

"Honey, I'm home."

 

 

Willow gasps at the sight of Illyria crouched naked, writing just above the baseboard. In the time he's been gone, she's covered two entire walls with chicken scratches.

 

 

Illyria pauses in her writing, reaching out as she rises. "Give me the notebooks."

 

 

"Oh my god," Willow murmurs. "Fred?"

 

 

***

 

 

As he surrenders the notebooks, Xander says brightly, "Hey, let me find you some raiments."

 

 

Illyria writes a fat "#1" in marker on the top of one and hands it back. "You will transcribe what I have already written into this. I must continue." Sweeping her arm across the top of Wes's desk, she sends his clutter crashing to the floor. She sets her stack of notebooks to the side, then settles down at the desk to begin writing in #2.

 

 

"Transcribe?" Xander blurts. He looks at the wall, which seems to be half ancient language, half math of a type that's totally beyond him. "Look, I can't accurately take this down. My handwriting is bad enough when I do know what I'm writing."

 

 

For the first time, Illyria takes notice of Willow. "Willow Rosenberg will do it. She has a certain aptitude for mathematical equations that makes her adequate for the task. Delay me no more." She bends her head over the notebook, and her pen begins flying across the paper.

 

 

Willow casts him a look: puzzled, mostly, with a tiny bit of hurt. Willow Rosenberg has never been termed merely adequate. "What's going on? Giles told me you were kidnapped by an ancient god. What does Fred have to do with this?" She lowers her voice to a fierce whisper. "And it smells like wild monkey sex in here."

 

 

"No. _No_. There's been no wild monkeys here."

 

 

Willow eyes his hastily-dressed condition and notes his socks strewn on the floor, and Xander regrets his disavowal. Maybe he _could_ have blamed this on wild monkeys.

 

 

"Cease your prattling. You distract me."

 

 

Xander jerks his head toward the bedroom, and Willow follows him there. Searching the room for a robe, he asks, "You don't remember Giles getting a call from Angel a month or two back?"

 

 

Will shakes her head. "I've been traveling a lot, you know that. He didn't mention anything about it, but we've had so much going on. What in the hell is wrong with Fred?"

 

 

"She died."

 

 

***

 

 

"Died?" Willow glances back out toward the living room, though Illyria's out of their sight line. "Someone raised her?"

 

 

"No. Here's where 'complicated' fits in. That's not Fred. Not exactly. You knew   
Fred? How did I not know that?" They've been friends so long, part of the same little social circle, that it's weird to think she even knows someone he doesn't.

 

 

"I've been to see Angel in L.A. a time or two. A couple of years ago I went and resouled him, remember? Fred's really sweet, and possibly the one person I've met who could make me feel like a slow learner. And speaking of which, what's she writing out there?"

 

 

"I don't know. She just, uh, woke up and said, 'Oh god' and sent me out for notebooks. Listen, Will." He pauses, wondering how the hell to say this. "Don't expect her to be the Fred you knew. This god, Illyria -- it sort of hatched inside Fred. It killed her in the process. When I first ran into Illyria, it didn't even look like this. It looked kinda like Fred, but it was blue and insecty. She -- it -- I'm thoroughly confused, so most of the time I'm going with 'she' -- she could put on Fred's form so she could pass, and something happened, she seemed to blow out all her energy messing with space and time, and now she's stuck in full Fred mode." He rakes his fingers through his hair. He's telling this all wrong. "Then there's some mystical shit. Every bit of Fred was burned up in the transformation. But there was some spell Angel had cast that changed people's memories. The original, true memories were held in some kind of stasis. When they got out, Fred's found Illyria. There's some Fred in her, that much I'm sure of, but I don't know how much."

 

 

Willow stands still, gazing at nothing, her fingertips over her lips.

 

 

"Giles didn't tell you?" He'd surely have done a better job than Xander has.

 

 

"No." It takes her a moment to shake off her vagueness and focus on Xander again. "I knew he was keeping tabs on something that might be rising in L.A., but no, he never said anything about Fred. Maybe he didn't know I knew her, either. I didn't say much when I got back that last time. That's when everything with Caleb and the First was hitting the fan." She sits on the end of the bed. "I can't believe she could -- are you sure she died?"

 

 

"Wes told me she died in his arms. I should probably tell you -- he's bitter. About Giles. Apparently Angel went to him for help saving Fred, but he wouldn't. The Wolfram &amp; Hart thing, I guess." He sits next to her, slipping an arm around her. "I'm sorry, Will."

 

 

She leans into him without speaking, and he strokes her hair.

 

 

After a moment he presses a kiss against her temple, preparing to release her, when Illyria appears in the bedroom door, notebook and pen in hand. Her scowl doesn't promise anything good. "You prefer to disregard my command so you can partake of the peaches of another?"

 

 

***

 

 

Xander springs to his feet. "Not in the slightest. No peaches here. This was comfort. She knew Fred, and hadn't known what happened."

 

 

Illyria regards Willow. "She does smell of grief, but it is milder than yours or Wesley's." She turns her attention on Xander again. "You did tell me that humans bury their sorrow in meaningless sexual activity. Most grief I have observed was solitary "

 

 

"Again I say, nothing sexual here."

 

 

"Yet you press your lips against her flesh."

 

 

"Believe me--" Willow begins, but Xander holds a hand up to stop her.

 

 

"There are zones. And techniques. People kiss their mothers. They kiss babies. It's a quick, dry kiss. A peck." He demonstrates on the back of his hand.

 

 

"There is no thrusting of the tongue."

 

 

"Uh, right. I know I saw a robe somewhere. Let me get that for you."

 

 

"You will demonstrate this peck for me later. For the moment I wish to continue my endeavor without distraction." She glares at Xander as he offers her Wes's robe. "Now that this human has arrived, you show no further interest in doing my bidding. I have made my wishes known, yet you absent yourself so you may speak with her and press your lips to her face."

 

 

"I came to look for the robe. Here, slip it on. You'll be more comfortable."

 

 

"You had no worries for my comfort when you removed my garments."

 

 

He didn't believe his face could get any redder than it was, but then, life's always full of surprises. "Different modes of dress are called for in different situations. This is a fully-covered kind of situation."

 

 

She finally submits to his attempts to slip the robe on her, but leaves it open, the belt dangling from the terrycloth loops.

 

 

Willow chimes in. "My fault. Xander got distracted explaining about Fred. I didn't know her that well, but I liked her."

 

 

"Winifred Burkle was beloved by many," she says, in the dismissive tone of a being who's known the adoration of the masses. "Yet in the end it gained her nothing. Just as I have nothing to show for the allegiance of this one, who claims to be my guide."

 

 

Willow turns her scrutiny on him. Xander does what he does best, ducking it. "Illyria's right. Let's get that transcribing started." He picks up the abandoned #1 notebook and thrusts it toward her. _Please_, he mouths. He gestures her out the door.

 

 

As Illyria approaches he says, "Allow me," and ties her robe closed. On impulse he gives her a demo peck on the cheek.

 

 

"You are presumptious," Illyria hisses. She regards him a moment and says, "I find it oddly pleasing."

 

_That's me, oddly pleasing._ He follows her into the living room, finding Willow standing in the middle of the room, staring at Illyria's wall scratchings, transfixed. "What?" he asks.

 

 

"This is amazing," she murmurs.

 

 

"What is it?"

 

 

"It's too complex for me to comprehend it all, but ... I think it's the origin of everything."

 

 

***

 

_Everything, huh?_ "Oh." It's just chicken scratches to him. This is not that new a feeling.

 

 

Willow doesn't notice. "This is -- wow. It's just what you'd expect of Fred if she had access to the mind of a god. It's astonishing."

 

 

Xander frowns. "Why Fred?"

 

 

"She's a physicist. I googled her -- just the once."

 

 

Right, Xander thinks. If someone says they only googled someone once, it's a sure bet it was more. He had no idea she'd had a yen for Fred. In his experience, you only google people you hate (hoping you'll find they proved human spontaneous combustion is not a myth) or someone you're crushing on. Well, okay, and Sunnydale residents, just to see who made it out alive and stayed that way.

 

 

"She wrote this incredible paper on supersymmetry published in one of the science journals. But this--" Illyria's at the desk, resuming her scrawls, so Willow settles in on the floor and flips open her own notebook.

 

 

Which leaves Xander on his own for an unknown stretch of time. He should call Giles. He should go out and shop for some food to stock this place with something edible, but he really really should call Giles.

 

 

But damn, he's tired, and the thought of the argument that's sure to ensue just makes him want to curl up on the sofa and nap. He eyes the black script all over the walls. It throbs in his brain, makes him long to sink into sleep.

 

 

Supersymmetry. What does that even _mean_? That rare combination of genes that makes supermodels so inhumanly perfect? No, that's called Photoshop. And that has nothing to do with physics, anyway. Physiques, maybe.

 

 

He's mentally babbling. Not good. He doesn't want to do that with Giles, for sure. The thought of Giles's irritation buzzing across the wireless network and beaming into his skull makes Xander profoundly tired. He sinks onto the couch and yanks off his shoes.

 

 

"I think I'll have a short nap," he announces, though no one is listening. He settles on his side, face turned toward the back of the couch, and is out.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander nearly breaks the surface a couple of times, but his body pulls him down again into deeper sleep. When he finally manages to emerge, Willow has taken Illyria's place at the desk. She's engrossed in one of the notebooks,and there's a small stack of others beside it.

 

 

Sitting up, he looks around the room. No Illyria. "Hey," he says.

 

 

Willow looks around. "Hey, yourself. Are you okay? You went down like a ton of bricks. I tried waking you, but gave up."

 

 

He rubs his hands over his face. "I'm all right. It's been a strange couple of days without much sleep. Where's Illyria?"

 

 

"She has retired to the sleep chamber." Her attempt to replicate Illyria's voice isn't quite successful, but strangely it makes things stir that he'd prefer to remain sleeping, at least in Willow's presence. "What the hell has been going on in here? You _removed her garments_?"

 

 

He'd been hoping that tidbit skated right past her. "That's between a guy and his ancient god."

 

 

"So there isn't some elaborate, semi-believable explanation for this. You _were_ having wild monkey sex with Illyria."

 

_Damn._ That means he might've gotten away with some elaborate, semi-believable story. "I have no comment at this time."

 

 

"Xander, I can't believe you. I mean, you've had some patterns of behavior this past year that I didn't want to comment on, because I know it's your way of dealing with Anya's death. But the occasional one night stand is totally different from taking up with -- with --"

 

 

Anger flares up at her psychoanalysis of him. "You were completely fangirling her mad mathematical skillz when I went to sleep. What happened?"

 

 

"She's not Fred."

 

 

"I think I warned you about that."

 

 

"What _is_ it with you? I know I called you a demon magnet way back when, but it was one demon then--"

 

 

"--_Ex_-demon--"

 

 

She ignores this. "Now it's a _pattern_. You can't match Buffy for fighting skills, but you sure as hell can match her for living dangerously."

 

 

"That's crap."

 

 

"If you say so. You play with explosives for a living, and in your spare time you pick up every demonic female in range--"

 

 

"Spare me the bullshit psychoanalysis, Will. Not to mention, she's a god."

 

 

"Right, and gods are all about the fluffy bunnies and sunshine. She might as well be a demon."

 

 

"What _did_ happen while I was asleep?"

 

 

"Nothing. I just tried relating to Fred, and whatever of her is in there is so transformed and scattered into Illyria's consciousness --"

 

 

"She's not really Fred now, so she's evil."

 

 

"She's not benign."

 

 

"_Life's_ not benign."

 

 

Willow scowls. "She'll hurt you. Do you damage."

 

 

"_Life_ will do me damage. It does everyone."

 

 

"She's not life. She's a dead god who crashed her way back into a world that spit her out. She's a revenant." She rises from the desk chair. "I'm going back to Giles. Come with me."

 

 

He thinks of Illyria on her own. He's not sure how much damage she'd do to the world, or conversely, how much the world would do to her. "When I play with explosives," he says, "I know what I'm doing. That's the thing you don't get. And believe it or not, I know what I'm doing here. Go to Giles or not, but I'm staying here."

 

 

***

 

 

Whatever mystical force field stopped Willow from locating Xander and Illyria seems to prevent her from teleporting back to Giles. She has to huff in the traditional way, and from the window he watches her stalk away from Wes's building until suddenly she vanishes halfway down the sidewalk. He lets out a breath.

 

 

He opens the bedroom door to check in on Illyria. She's sleeping in her usual manner, lying on top of the covers, arms crossed, feet together. As if she's laid out in a sarcophagus. There are ink smears along the side of her hand -- both hands, he sees as he draws closer. It looks like she switched hands as she wrote to give the other a rest. Ambidextrous, that's the word -- he remembers it because of the joke: _I'd give my right arm to be ambidextrous._ He wonders if it's Illyria who had that ability, or if Fred did all along.

 

 

It worries him that this bout of writing has exhausted her so completely. Or maybe it was the sex. Or being "cracked open" even further, if the orgy of mathematics was in fact a Fred thing. Illyria was afraid when she was at the tipping point of orgasm, terrified enough of letting go that she would say so. He hadn't realized what it was that scared her so much -- not merely the surrender to the rush of sensation, but the loosening of her iron grip over "the shell."

 

 

He doesn't know how to feel. Glad that aspects of Fred are breaking through? Should he try to encourage more? Or should he feel worry and pity for Illyria, her ancient self crumbling like stone statues of some long-ago civilization?

 

 

To tell the truth, he feels all these things. Part of him wants to grab her, pack up a few things and run before Willow can bring Giles back to work some god-killing spell. Part of him thinks _bring him on_ \-- Xander was going to call him anyway, see if Illyria was right about dying, see if Giles could do something to help. The question is which of them can be more persuasive, Willow or Xander?

 

 

He sits next to the sleep dais and waits for whatever happens next.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander flips through a couple of the notebooks while he sits beside Illyria. He's not surprised to discover nothing that makes any sense to him. After paging idly through he sets the whole stack together on the nightstand in order of the scrawled numbers on the cover. There are seven of them.

 

 

"Hey," says a soft voice beside him, laced with twang. "You're still here."

 

 

"Hey. So are you." He's not altogether sure who he's talking to anymore.

 

 

"Aren't you just ... astonishingly sweet." That gives him his answer. Fred makes no move to sit up, though she moves out of the creepy arms-crossed corpse position.

 

 

He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, smoothing her hair away from her face. "Are you okay?"

 

 

"I'm fine. You were every inch the gentleman." She realizes what she's just said and giggles behind her hand. "I meant -- well. I'll just let that stand."

 

 

"I'm glad. But I meant generally, too. You seem --" He doesn't want to say what she seems. She seems like Illyria's right, that she -- they -- could die. He takes her hand that had captured her giggle.

 

 

"Tired. I used to do that a lot. Pull all-nighters because I was so excited about what I was working on. I crash really hard. A huge breakfast always sets me right --" She frowns. "That's strange."

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"I'm not hungry. I'm always crazy hungry at times like this. But the idea --" An expression of disgust twists her features.

 

 

Xander doesn't want to say Illyria's name. "I think -- what you went through -- it changed your body."

 

 

"I don't remember what I went through. Wesley said -- but not to me -- and it remembers -- agonies. The last flutterings as it unfolded itself --"

 

 

"Shhh. It's okay." He thinks this is probably a lie.

 

 

"I was nothing to it. A cow. Less than that."

 

 

"Shhh." He presses a kiss into her hand because he doesn't know what else to do.

 

 

Tears spill over and slide into her temple. "I won't be a cow. Not again."

 

 

"Of course not."

 

 

"I'm a scientist. I wrote a paper on string theory."

 

 

"I know." If Willow was impressed, that's enough for him.

 

 

"So far behind now. I know that."

 

 

He strokes her hair. "Don't worry about that now. You've got something new to work on. Why don't you rest first?"

 

 

"If you hold me."

 

 

"Of course." He stretches on the bed beside her and takes her in his arms.

 

 

***

 

 

She curls up against him, and Xander's reminded of the sensation of a baby bird cradled in his hand. He'd once held one, torn by an encounter with a neighborhood cat, stroking it as its life drained out of it. He'd only been a kid, but he'd marveled at its weightlessness. Fred strikes him the same way. Hollowed out, just like Illyria had said.

 

 

Yet she'd seemed surprisingly heavy when he'd carried her through the airport after Illyria's collapse. Had that been Illyria's presence? Was the god gone now?

 

 

"That's nice," she murmurs, and he realizes he's been absently stroking her hair.

 

 

"Is there anything you need?"

 

 

"Just this." She settles into quiet for a moment, then rouses herself a bit. "Someone was here. Wasn't there?"

 

 

"Willow. I never realized you knew her."

 

 

"I was rude, I think. I was caught up in working it all out."

 

 

"I think your ... roommate was ruder."

 

 

"Illyria," she murmurs, a thread of bitterness in her voice. "It pushed me aside. Rose up to defend its territory."

 

 

"Where is it now?" Xander asks.

 

 

"I don't want to feel around for it. If it's sleeping, I don't want to wake it up."

 

 

"Okay."

 

 

She smooths her hand over his chest and snuggles in a little closer. "Willow Rosenberg is desirous of your peaches," she says, in a voice no different from the Fred-voice she's been using.

 

_That's_ why Illyria had muscled in and laid the freakout on Willow? Xander cackles at the thought.

 

 

She turns her face toward him to glare. "You dare laugh."

 

 

"Not at you. At the idea. Willow had a tiny taste of my peaches a long, long time ago. She prefers girl-peaches."

 

 

"Yet she is protective of yours."

 

 

"You're right. She's got that no-woman-is-good-enough-for-the-peaches-of-Xander attitude going. Believe me, it's nothing personal."

 

 

She feathers her fingers along the side of his face. "They are very sweet peaches. Is there someone special they belong to? Of course not. You're not the kind of man who'd be here if there was."

 

 

"There was someone."

 

 

"I remember now. The one you can't talk about how she really died. I'm sorry, my memory's all swiss-cheesy."

 

 

"Anya."

 

 

"Anya," she whispers. Her fingers trace his lips. "I was going to ask you something, but now it seems selfish."

 

 

"Ask, it's all right."

 

 

"I hoped I could taste them again. But--"

 

 

Gently he lays his fingers over her lips. There doesn't seem to be any chance of Willow and Giles teleporting directly into the room. "Taste away."

 

 

***

 

 

He doesn't wait for Fred to make the next move, but offers her a kiss for encouragement. Undemanding, yet filled with promise. "We can leave out the running commentary this time."

 

 

She stokes Xander's jawline, which has grown seriously stubbly. "Actually, I found the commentary strangely hot." She draws one leg upward, bent at the knee, and the robe falls partially away.

 

_Strangely hot. Oddly pleasing._ At least the two lovers sharing the one body are more or less in agreement.

 

 

Fred kisses him greedily, and Xander can tell instantly who's in the driver's seat. Her movements are fluid, assured, and she doesn't have to be told to pay attention to her own sensations. He delights in teasing little gasps from her, and she shows an aptitude for doing the same. "Reciprocation," she murmurs. "A very important protocol."

 

 

Things progress from little gasps to heavy breathing punctuated by moans, yelps, giggles and inarticulate cries, which is why they don't hear keys in the front door. Fred is riding the last ripples of her orgasm, while Xander has reached the crest of his wave, urged on by her breathy chain of _yes_es. He's just reached the tipping point when her hand on his shoulder convulses and claws at him and she cries, "Oh god." He might take it for a switch back to Illyria, but for the distress in her voice.

 

 

She's staring toward the doorway, and Xander twists to follow her gaze.  
"What in god's name is going on?" Wes wants to know. He's got his own stubble going, and still wears the shirt he'd borrowed from Xander.

 

 

He also has a gun in his hand.

 

 

***

 

_Wait -- I can explain._

 

 

That's the cliche for this situation, isn't it?

 

 

There is no way in hell -- or more appropriately, no way on the hellmouth -- that Xander can explain this. But he'd really, really rather not try while still inside Wes's formerly dead girlfriend. Putting up one hand in the classic _Don't shoot me_ position, he says, "Wes. Could you give us a minute?"

 

 

"Most certainly not." Though his voice is cold, Wes's face is a study in mixed emotions. Horror, grief, shock, disgust. And a large dose of WTF. Xander can't tell if he's been drinking. He doesn't look like he _hasn't_.

 

 

"Wesley," Fred says. "Put the gun down. Please."

 

 

"I think not," Wes says.

 

 

Xander carefully lowers his hand and feels around the bedspread.

 

 

"Don't be stupid," Wes advises. "I've recently shot my father -- or I thought so at the time -- and an attorney at Wolfram &amp; Hart. I also stabbed Charles Gunn. All these events were in some way related to Fred."

 

_Isn't that just peachy?_

 

_Ouch. Bad word choice._

 

 

"I'm just reaching for the robe, Wes. Let her put something on."

 

 

Wes's face twists. "Put on Illyria," he says to Fred. "I can't bear looking on this travesty any longer."

 

 

"She can't," Xander says. "Something happened, she can't slip back and forth." He risks a reach for the robe and hands it to her, then withdraws from her. He backs off the bed and crouches beside it to retrieve his pants.

 

 

"Stand up, Harris. Step back against that wall."

 

 

"Look, I'm just reaching for my pants."

 

 

"I'm aware of that. Back up _now_."

 

 

"Hell, no." He's not about to be humiliated by some half crazy--

 

 

Wes fires a shot into the wall beside him. Its trajectory is so close Xander can feel the rush of its passing, hear it singing as it splits the air.  
Xander stumbles back against the wall, his knees rubbery.

 

 

"Wes, don't," Fred says. She's covered herself by now.

 

 

He trains the gun on her. "What _are_ you?"

 

 

"Wesley, I can't talk with a gun in my face."

 

 

"Stop it!" A tear slips down his face, and Xander thinks he'd rather be his kind of naked right now than Wes's. "Stop using her voice. _Christ._ The walls out there --" He draws himself up, steadies the gun. "When I first met Fred she was given to writing complex equations on her walls. She was quite mad then. What this _thing_ hopes to gain by imitating her behavior --" He raises the gun a fraction of an inch, and Xander sees he's steeling himself to shoot her.

 

 

"Wes, no!" He longs to tackle Wes, but fears he'll just set him off.

 

 

She flings her little hand into the air, as if it can stop a bullet. "I'm not a thing!"

 

 

***

 

 

"There's still some Fred in her," Xander says urgently. "More all the time, I think."

 

 

The gun wavers just a bit. "That's impossible. Everything Fred was was burned away when Illyria emerged." His voice drops to a near whisper. "Her soul too."

 

 

"Might be," Xander says, "but I think things have changed. She got her memories back out of that stasis spell -- you knew that, didn't you?"

 

 

"Memories are not a soul."

 

 

"You know what a soul is? Good for you." _Pretty mouthy for a naked guy in the same room with a gun, Harris._ "Maybe you put enough memories together and you build a soul."

 

 

"Illyria's duped you with this charade. You can go along with it because you never knew her. Because you want to believe you're actually coupling with something human."

 

 

Fred drops her hand as if it's too much to keep it in the air. "I remember almost everything. My whole life. Texas. LA. Pylea." She lifts her chin, lowers her voice. "I remember Connor."

 

 

A bleak expression crosses Wes's face, and Xander feels he's seeing something he has no right to witness.

 

 

"But it ends the day we joined Wolfram &amp; Hart. The next memories I have are Illyria's."

 

 

"Vail's Orlon Window," Wes murmurs. "When it shattered, Fred's memories rushed back to their home."

 

 

"They were like a spore landing in a petri dish," Fred says. "The conditions were right for them to flourish."

 

 

He tilts his head, studying her. "You regrew your soul."

 

 

"I couldn't say," she answers. "I'm not what I was. Illyria and I are twined together somehow."

 

 

"The Window -- it explains how Illyria could pull off her impersonation of you so flawlessly even your parents believed it, after she'd said there was nothing left."

 

 

Her hand flies to her mouth.

 

 

"Fred?" Tears glitter in Wes's eyes.

 

 

Xander steps forward, his hand out, palm up. "Let me have the gun, Wes."

 

 

Without a word he offers it in his own upturned palm, and Xander closes the distance between them to take it before Wes changes his mind. He lets out a relieved breath, retreating to find his pants.

 

 

Wes kneels at the bedside, eyes only on Fred. "My god, Fred, I never thought--"

 

 

She sits on the bed with her legs tucked up under her, the blue robe puddling around her. Leaning toward him, she reaches out and slaps him across the face.

 

 

***

 

 

Of all the things Xander might've expected, that was not one. There wasn't much force behind the blow, not because she didn't mean it, but because she seems to be weakening.

 

 

That makes no difference to Wes's shock level. It takes a moment for the reaction to wear off and his expression to harden. "Illyria. Quite a subtle joke for you. I'm impressed." He flicks a glance toward Xander. "Shoot it."

 

 

"No," Xander says. He's already removed the clip, and he ejects the round in the chamber.

 

 

"What you did to my parents was unspeakably cruel," she says, still fully in Fred voice.

 

 

"What I -- ?"

 

 

"They deserved to know what happened to their daughter. Instead you let them have some grotesque parody so you don't have to be burdened with their grief."

 

 

"I was going to tell them. Illyria appeared before I could."

 

 

"So you let _it_ decide for you. Decide for them."

 

 

Tiny and frail as Fred is, Xander recognizes there's no way in hell Wes can win this argument with her. Wes still stammers out a response, though he sinks closer to the floor, sagging back on his heels. "I -- I was lost in my own grief."

 

 

"Clearly." Her voice drips with contempt.

 

 

This conversation is like a train wreck; much as Xander thinks he should look away, he can't.

 

 

"You knew my parents," Fred says. "I thought you liked them. But you couldn't even give them the truth. My god, they were among the few people you _could_ have told the truth." She flicks a look back toward Xander. "It was a gift in a way. We so rarely have the chance to honor our dead by naming them warriors. You had that gift, and you squandered it."

 

 

"Fred, I --"

 

 

"Pure cowardice, that's all it was. I can't forgive that, Wesley." Now that she's unloaded both barrels on him, she sinks too, head bowed down toward her hands splayed out on the bedspread. "Xander, can we leave here?"

 

 

He hates to deny her anything, but he has to say it: "I'm not sure you're in any shape to travel."

 

 

"I'm in no shape to stay."

 

 

"I'll get your things." He snatches up his shirt and pulls it on as he heads toward the living room to retrieve her clothes.

 

 

Wes reaches a useless hand toward Fred as Xander steps around him. "Fred. I beg you--"

 

 

"Don't. You disgust me."

 

 

Xander returns with her dress and shoes as well as his own shoes and jacket. "Out."

 

 

Wes looks toward Fred, who won't even favor him with a return glance. "Please don't go."

 

 

Unburdened, Xander takes a step toward Wes. "She doesn't have the energy for your drama. Get out or I'll put you out. You want to be useful, bring me a warm, wet washcloth and a towel." He closes the bedroom door behind Wes, then sits on the bed beside Fred. "Rest a minute. You can freshen up a little before you dress."

 

 

She dredges up a smile. "White knight."

 

 

"No. Just a guy with a protective streak, mostly for women who don't need it."

 

 

When Wes raps once at the door, Xander opens it just enough to take his offerings, then hips it closed again. He sits beside her again and gently wipes her face then hands her the washcloth to attend to the rest. "How are you feeling?"

 

 

"Weak. No pain, at least. Bodily, anyway."

 

 

"I'm sorry."

 

 

"Not your fault."

 

 

"I think I took more of your energy than you had to spare." He shakes out her dress and gathers it from neck to hem in his hands, as he would a t-shirt, then holds the armholes out for her. "A little wrinkled, but the flowers should hide most of it."

 

 

"I knew what I was asking." He starts to guide the dress over her head, but she says, "You've got it backwards. See? Tag."

 

 

"I frequently get things backwards." He eases it off her and gets it put right.

 

 

"Not here. Nothing but the dress." She catches his hand and presses a kiss into the palm.

 

 

He slips her shoes on her, then laces his own. "Where do you want to go?"

 

 

"Let's talk about it once we're out of here."

 

 

"I'll carry you to the car." Xander braces for an argument, but she just nods. Opening the bedroom door, he sees Wes has wasted no time filling a glass with something smoky amber in color. "Get the front door."

 

 

He adds nothing further as he carries Fred out the apartment door, and then waits for Wes to scurry around to the entrance to the building. Fred is equally silent, her gaze turned back over Xander's shoulder until Wes is behind them, then she turns to face forward.

 

 

"You're very quiet," she says as he sets her on her feet and digs for his car keys.

 

 

"I can't help feeling sorry for the bastard."

 

 

"You do that for both of us. I'll save my energy for something else."

 

 

"Works for me," Xander says, then settles her in the passenger seat and closes the door. He gets a fleeting glimpse of Wes's ghostly face behind the entrance door, then he rounds the car to the driver's side and gets them gone.

 

 

***

 

 

"Where would you like to go?" Xander asks once they're a couple of blocks from Wes's. "Do you want to see your parents?" Part of him wonders if he could handle this, being part of her farewell to them, if that's what it is, but he knows they're important to her. After these few weird days, she's important to him.

 

 

"I don't know how to find them. They're vacationing in Hawaii."

 

 

He thinks about saying Willow might be able to do a locator spell and then teleport them to Fred's parents, but he's not certain she'd survive it. Wait -- there's that mojo block. Will can't even teleport near her, so forget that. "Maybe we should find you a hotel, let you rest. Someplace close, then I'll get on the phone to Giles."

 

 

"You know where I'd really like to go?" There's a surge of energy in her voice, and she's actually lifted her head from the headrest. "The ocean. It settles me when things get crazy. Not _too_ crazy. I mean, when I first came back from Pylea, it was much too vast. I was very fond of small spaces back then. But eventually I got the ocean back. It would be good to see it now."

 

 

Xander's not so sure. He likes his plan better.

 

 

"And I know my folks are out there looking at the same ocean."

 

 

And just like that, he's on board. "Maybe we can find a nice bed and breakfast somewhere on the beach."

 

 

"And we'll never come out for breakfast."

 

 

He knows what she means, but his mind gives it a morbid twist. "Better yet, someplace where they leave it on a tray by the door. I haven't had anything to eat since that nasty frozen dinner at Wes's."

 

 

"Let's stop for tacos!"

 

 

It encourages him to see these bursts of animation. "I thought you didn't eat."

 

 

"I could smell yours." She turns dreamy. "I missed them like crazy in Pylea. I dreamed about them. Turn right up here."

 

 

He makes the turn she pointed out. "This is the second time you've mentioned Pylea. Where's that?"

 

 

"It's another dimension. Where Lorne comes from, as it turned out. I got sucked into a portal."

 

 

"The food was bad?"

 

 

"I learned how to make soup out of twigs."

 

 

He'd been thinking British-food bad, but that's worse. Pulling up at the taco stand, Xander hurries to the window to place his order. As he waits for the food, he speed-dials Cleveland.

 

 

Because his luck is for crap, he gets Andrew on the line. Xander identifies himself and then cuts into the breathless gossip that results. "Get Giles for me."

 

 

"No can do, big guy. Giles is in a major powwow with Willow."

 

 

"Andrew, that's what I'm calling about. Put him on."

 

 

"He said he'd hurt me."

 

 

"_Giles_ said that?"

 

 

"Not in those words. He was all drily cutting and British and I wasn't really sure what he meant. Kennedy said it meant he'd hurt me."

 

 

Xander silently vows to kill him, first chance he gets. "Put him on, Andrew. It's important."

 

 

"I'll tell him you called, the second he's free. I've got to go. I've got muffins that have to come out of the tins, or they'll stick." The line goes dead.

 

 

Xander chokes off a curse as the taco guy appears at the window with his order. When he gets back into the car, Fred takes a deep whiff, which puts Xander in mind once again of Spike and his dead lungs and the apparent pleasure he took in smoking.

 

 

"That is the most heavenly perfume on the planet," Fred says.

 

 

"Want to try just one?" It's hard to believe there's nothing organic inside her. "A taste, maybe?"

 

 

Fred shakes her head. "You go on, though."

 

 

"I got the soft shell but still, this isn't food I can eat while driving. Why don't you hold the bag while I get us to the ocean."

 

 

She takes the sack, unfolds the top and dips her head over the opening. "Mmm. Juana is an absolute genius in the kitchen." She reaches in and hands him a bundle wrapped in grease-spotted paper. "Have just one. You must be starving."

 

 

She's right. This is beyond average, beyond good. He could eat the whole sackful and go back for another, but instead he takes the napkin Fred offers and scrubs at his hands.

 

 

"Kiss me," Fred says.

 

 

He moves to lift the napkin to his mouth, but Fred stops his hand in midair by folding it in her own. She lays a kiss on him that makes him half dizzy.

 

 

"Wow," she whispers once she draws back.

 

 

"I'll say."

 

 

"I think it's the cilantro."

 

 

As he puts the car in gear, Xander laughs softly to himself. Even taking Illyria out of the equation, it seems he's fated to be with strange, strange girls.

 

 

***

 

 

"Tell me about your folks," Xander says as he merges onto the freeway. It's going to be a crawl, and he has to battle an urge to pull out onto the shoulder and floor it along the gravel. "They're in Hawaii, huh?"

 

 

"It's been their dream vacation as long as I can remember. I'm glad -- I'm glad they got to go, and that I got to know about it."

 

_Before I die_, that's the unspoken part. It aches to hear her talk this way. "You'll be getting home to a postcard from them before you know it. We're going to reach Giles and get things figured out."

 

 

She ignores this. "Maybe it's for the best that Wesley didn't tell them. They'd never have gone if they knew, and then forever after they'd think of that every time they considered making another try at going. They got their dream, after all these years of saving up and fantasizing."

 

 

"They're not big with the money-making, then."

 

 

"No. Daddy manages the John Deere dealership and Mom drives a schoolbus. They scrimped and saved to put me through school -- I got scholarships and all, but going out of state's crazy expensive, you know. Then lord knows what they spent on the private detective they hired when I disappeared. When I got the signing bonus at Wolfram &amp; Hart I sent most of it to them. I was really afraid they wouldn't spend any of it."

 

 

"So it was for the wrong reasons, but maybe Wes did a good thing."

 

 

This prompts an emphatic shake of her head. "It just kills me to think of Illyria playing at being me, to have the memories of their visit filtered through its pitiless point of view. Hugging my mother, thinking how it could just as easily crush the life out of her. That's a risk Wesley took, because he couldn't face anyone's grief but his own."

 

_Speaking of pitiless._ Xander can't quite shake the image of Wes on his knees before her. "I don't want to criticize anyone's mode of grieving, because god knows I'd be in for my share."

 

 

She turns her face toward him, her expression softening. "That's right. Your girl. Tell me about her."

 

 

"Newly human and strangely literal, is how she once put it. She was a demon once. We were together four years." He winces. "Three. We weren't exactly together when she died, which was my fault."

 

 

"Oh," she says. "That's hard."

 

 

"But that's not really about her, and that's what you asked. She was pretty and funny and wholeheartedly embraced American capitalism and had an embarrassing lack of a verbal filter. She had an absolute genius for gourmet presentations of peaches, multiple times a day, if possible."

 

 

Fred grins. "You're pretty good at that yourself."

 

 

"The taste of chocolate ice cream tastes like Anya to me. The last time we made love, a couple of days before she died, we were eating ice cream in the kitchen late one night. We were living in the same house -- incredibly long story. Her kisses were cold and hot and sweet. Sometimes when I'm afraid I'm forgetting, I get a tub of cheap chocolate ice cream -- because there was no point keeping the good stuff in a dorm full of slayers -- and it brings her right back." The same way, he knows, that the taste of tacos will always mean Fred to him.

 

 

"I was so afraid people would forget me. When I was in Pylea. _I_ nearly forgot me. By the time Angel found me, I was almost convinced my life here was some strange dream."

 

 

"I don't give up on things easily. Friendship. Grudges. Love."

 

 

"She's lucky to have you." It sounds so odd in present tense, but he thinks he knows what she means. "'Newly human and strangely literal' -- I can see now how you could take Illyria in stride."

 

 

Xander laughs. "You'd call that 'in stride'?"

 

 

"Yeah, I would. Take this exit. There's a really great beach along here." She lowers her window and leans toward it. "Oh, you can smell the ocean."

 

 

But all Xander gets is the wafting scent of cooling tacos.

 

 

***

 

 

Fred encourages him to finish off the tacos before they head onto the beach. His appetite has fled somewhere along the line, but he won't deny her any pleasure, however vicarious. They are good, even though they've gone cold.

 

 

He makes a stab at wiping his hands with an already-greasy napkin, but pauses before going for his mouth. "Another little taste?"

 

 

"We can do that while we walk on the beach."

 

 

"Do you feel up to it?"

 

 

"I want to try."

 

 

Xander rounds the car to the passenger side and helps her out. "Let me try calling Giles again." He hits the speed dial again, and gusts a sigh of relief as one of the girls answer. She's one of the newest slayers, whose name escapes him. "Is Giles there?"

 

 

"He and Willow went looking for you, where Willow left you."

 

 

"_Shit._ Tell Andrew he's dead."

 

 

"Giles is dead?" He remembers her better now. Strong girl, and fierce, but not the brightest.

 

 

Xander heaves a sigh. "No. Andrew. Tell him I'm going to pull out his trachea and make him a nice bow tie out of it. If you hear from Giles, tell him to call me. It's urgent." He speed-dials Willow's cell, but it kicks right into voice mail. Eyes stinging, he snaps his phone shut, fighting an urge to sprint for the shore and skip the fucking cell on the waves like a stone.

 

 

Fred puts her hand to his cheek. "Hey there."

 

 

He swallows around the tightness in his throat. "You knew Cordelia."

 

 

"Sure. We were friends for, gosh, years."

 

 

"I loved her, too. Not incredibly well, I was just a high school kid. I did something stupid and I lost her. I got the word a couple of months ago that she died." He swallows again against the ache. "I don't have the greatest track record with women I care about. They keep dying, and my god, was that the worst All About Me statement in the history of the world?"

 

 

Fred grins and he notices her dimples for the first time. "No, but I think that last bit was."

 

 

That teases a smile from him.

 

 

"You have abandonment issues. Which I totally get. C'mon, let's walk."

 

 

He has to steady her as they cross the sand, but she's stronger than he'd expected.

 

 

"I know Cordy died," Fred says, "I guess because for some reason Illyria knows it. But it happened after Angel rearranged the world and before Illyria woke up, and all those memories are just lost. I guess I had a whole relationship with Wesley during that time, too."

 

 

"That's all gone?"

 

 

She nods. "Illyria knows about it. She's fairly obsessed with it, I think, from spending time with him. Oh, isn't the ocean the best sound in the world? Just breathe to it."

 

 

He follows her example, and it does calm him. "Tell me about her. The Cordy you knew. I know she got these visions, and that must have --" He breaks off as his phone chirps Willow's ring. Relief surges through him. "Will."

 

 

"Where the hell _are_ you?"

 

 

***

 

 

"We're at the beach," Xander tells Willow. "Is Giles with you?"

 

 

"You went to the _beach_? Sure, it's Frankie Avalon and Crazy Ancient God Funicello. Xander, you're in danger."

 

 

"I'm fine. She's been Fred since you left." He draws Fred close to his body, pressing a kiss to her hair. "She's losing strength. I need you both to get here."

 

 

"I can't teleport to you. I can't even get a read on where you are. Illyria's mojo cancels out mine somehow. If you'd stayed at Wes's place--"

 

 

"Yeah, right, hug a tree. Well, Wes isn't exactly a tree I'd hug right now."

 

 

"Or shake," says Fred.

 

 

"Look, if you can get some distance from her, I can home in on you. Like when I found you at the store. What was that, a couple blocks away?"

 

 

"No. I'm not going to leave her, not even for five minutes." He tips the phone away from his mouth and tells Fred, "They can't get a bead on us."

 

 

She gestures for the phone and he hands it to her. "Can you fix on a place? The Santa Monica Pier's not far. We could meet you there. Are you still at Wesley's? Bring the notebooks." She hands the phone back.

 

 

"Hurry, Will." He slides his phone into his pocket.

 

 

"See?" Fred points down the shoreline. "Not far at all."

 

 

"I'm thinking it's better we drive than walk."

 

 

She nods. "Just a minute, though. I just want a moment to think about my folks." She gazes at the ocean, leaning into Xander, her arm snugged around his waist. "I can picture them just like this, looking at the sunset bleeding orange across the sky and thinking how long they've dreamed about this trip. Marveling how perfect the moment is, just like the picture postcards. Standing there and loving each other, just like they always have. I came from that. I've never in my life doubted that I was loved -- except for my worst times on Pylea, when I lost every trace of who I was. Other than that, I've had a pretty charmed life."

 

 

"No past tense. You're not going anywhere."

 

 

"Actually, that was present perfect. Or present perfect progressive."

 

 

"I have no clue what that means."

 

 

Fred comes around to face him, slipping both arms about his waist. "It means I agree with you." She kisses him. "Let's go meet Willow and Giles."

 

 

***

 

 

Xander's not above throwing his LAPD-issued demolitions parking permit on the dashboard to justify the closest spot he can find. If that doesn't fly and he comes back to a parking ticket, he doesn't mind, as long as he comes back with Fred.

 

 

They walk hip to hip, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist. He's sure they look like a lot of young couples. A pretty girl, though pale for southern California. A doting young man who could use a shave.

 

 

What will they look like to Giles? Like the end of the world, he suspects.

 

 

Fred can only walk at a snail's pace; Xander makes space for this by pointing and remarking about things they pass. The carousel building, the vendor carts and junk shops. The truth is, anxious as he is, he's still not inclined to rush the confrontation they'll have to endure before they can get Giles's help. He desperately tries to formulate a persuasive argument even as he chatters.

 

 

He feels her tense beside him. "There's Willow."

 

 

Xander pulls her closer and whispers into her hair, "Illyria, if you're in there, now is not the time for a territorial pissing match. Lay low."

 

 

He plants a kiss on her temple and beckons Willow and Giles to come to them.

 

 

"Pray I don't screw this up," he whispers, this time to Fred.

 

 

***

 

 

Surreal is the word. The mingled smells of cotton candy and churros waft on the breeze that lifts happy Pacific Park shrieks toward them. Giles and Willow march toward them, expressions grim and pinched. Xander snugs his arm closer around Fred's shoulder.

 

 

"Hey, Giles." He tries for casual, fails miserably. "I want you to meet Winifred Burkle, physicist, demon fighter and friend."

 

 

Giles nods carefully. "I heard it a bit differently. Xander, if you'd come away for a moment, I'd like to speak with you privately."

 

 

"No. I'm with her."

 

 

"Then perhaps we should find someplace less public for this discussion."

 

 

"No," Xander says again. "I'm liking our chances better out here. At least until I know you're going to help."

 

 

Fred offers her hand as if this is not some weird standoff. "Mr. Giles, hi." Her twang has supercharged itself somehow. "It's nice to meet you. Willow talked about you when we met last year. Not a _lot_, really, because we had the whole near apocalypse, endless night, Angelus and Faith in a mystical coma things going, all at the same time. But enough to make me hope I'd meet you someday." She seems to realize suddenly that her offered hand is being slighted, and lets it drop. "I babble when I get nervous. Well, other times too, but this is one of the nervous ones."

 

 

"See?" Xander says. "Like I said. She's put in her time fighting demons. We bitch that no one sees what _we_ do, then when we run across someone who's lived the same life and suffered for it, _this_ is how we step up? And I'm using _we_ rhetorically, by the way -- what I really mean is _you_."

 

 

That breaks through Giles's air of grim resolve a little, and adds regret into the mix. "Xander, I understand your feelings. They'd be commendable, if they weren't putting you in such grave peril. This is not Winifred, but the thing that destroyed her."

 

 

The words hit him like a blow. "Don't you throw Jesse in my face."

 

 

"That wasn't my intent."

 

 

"This is _nothing_ like Jesse. Illyria's there, yeah, though it's fading. But Fred's in there too."

 

 

Giles casts a glance at Willow, who nods. "She seems like the Fred I knew."

 

 

"This is a very cunning enemy."

 

 

"It's not cunning," Xander spits. "It's her. We were just down there on the beach talking about her parents. She was saying her goodbyes, because if you don't help her, she won't see them again. That isn't cunning. This is real. This is Fred."

 

 

"There's someone else I can think of who was very real. Ben."

 

 

The name chills him. "That's completely different. He was willing to hurt Dawn to survive. Fred's an innocent. She's more, she's one of us, she's just from one of the branch offices."

 

 

"I wasn't aware Wolfram &amp; Hart was a branch office," Giles says drily. Xander takes a breath to argue, but Giles steams on. "Winifred here is sharing a body with one of the old gods. We saw how well Ben kept Glory contained. Quite simply, she's a danger."

 

 

"Tell me I'm not going to have to protect this girl against two of my best friends."

 

 

***

 

 

"This girl," Giles says, "is more than just a girl. And less."

 

 

"This girl," Fred echoes, "is just a tiny bit riled that everyone's talking about her like she's not here. I am not just a shell."

 

 

"Amen," Xander says, grateful to feel even the slightest bit of energy surging through her.

 

 

"You actually met me, Willow. How is it that Xander can see I'm not just a trick of Illyria's, and you can't?"

 

 

"You seem like Fred now. But what Giles said about Ben and Glory. We've encountered ancient gods before."

 

 

"Well, y'know, I have too," Fred says. "And excuse me for sayin', but the whole Sunnydale crowd's unholier-than-thou crap is wearing thin. We had Jasmine. I was one of the first to worship her. I was one of the first to see through her."

 

 

"See?" Xander says to Giles. "She's got knowledge that will make our side stronger. And Illyria in the equation makes that more true, not less."

 

 

A small kid clutching a Sno-cone goes charging through the middle of their group, and his father follows, apologizing as he plods along behind toward Ocean Avenue.

 

 

Giles sighs. "You cannot think to make a god into a pet or a mascot."

 

 

"If that's your final word," Xander says, "then we should go. If this is all the time Fred's got, we don't want to be wasting it on arguing with people who refuse to see her humanity."

 

 

"I see it," Giles counters. "I just don't trust it."

 

 

"There's no partial credit on this question, Giles. Strictly pass-fail. Fred?"

 

 

She nods. "Let's go."

 

 

"You won't see me again," he tells Giles and Willow. "If this is what demon fighting is now, I'm out."

 

 

"Xander," Willow says.

 

 

"I'm done arguing."

 

 

He starts to draw Fred away from them, but she reaches out her hand to Willow. "My notebooks."

 

 

Willow pulls her shoulder bag against her, casting a glance at Giles. "There's so much in them."

 

 

"They're mine," Fred says. "If you don't want my peaches, get your mitts off my tree."

 

 

"Hand 'em over," Xander adds.

 

 

Reluctantly Willow gives them up.

 

 

"That's it, then," Xander says as Fred hands them off to him. A leaden mass settles in his chest as he turns away with Fred and heads into the bright colors and noise of the crowd and the carousel.

 

 

***

 

 

Fred falters as they come up by the carousel, and he bends to lift her in his arms.

 

 

"Oh, Xander."

 

 

"You'll be okay. We'll figure something out."

 

 

"No, it's not -- I'm sorry. I've come between you and your friends."

 

 

"You didn't come between us. _They_ did." That makes no sense, but then again, it does. "You've got nothing to apologize for."

 

 

"You're such a generous man. I'm glad Illyria found you, out of all the people in the Home Depot."

 

 

Xander smiles. "There were maybe three people in the Home Depot. It was midnight." Plus he has the supernatural "Kick Me" sign taped to his back. "I'm glad too, Fred. Even with everything. And hey, look. Things are looking up. The car's still here."

 

 

He settles her onto her feet, careful not to hike her dress up.

 

 

"_Shit_," she says, looking over his shoulder. "Here they come."

 

 

"_Get in_." He wrenches her door open and then the back door, groping on the floorboard for the samurai sword as he looks back toward the pier.

 

 

Giles is running toward them, shouting Xander's name. "_Wait._"

 

 

Xander has to look away to find the sword. He closes his hand around the hilt and stands. "Stop right there."

 

 

Giles was already on that. Willow runs into him, grabbing his shoulder to steady them both.

 

 

Xander moves out of the door to give himself space, but the last thing he wants is to use this blade, smeared with blood from that tak horn demon, on Giles. "I will defend her."

 

 

Giles raises his hands, palms out. "That's not why I came."

 

 

"Then spit it. We don't have a lot of time here."

 

 

"I will not be the cause of this rift."

 

 

He blinks. "What?"

 

 

"I won't lose you. I won't go back to Buffy and Dawn and say I bollixed things up and drove you away from us. I'm not at all certain it's the right thing to do, but I'll try to help her."

 

 

Too shocked to speak, Xander flicks a glance to Willow.

 

 

"He means it. Me too."

 

 

"But why?"

 

 

"As you've been saying, time is short."

 

 

Should he trust this reversal? Like Giles said, he's not at all certain it's the right thing, but he's got zero chance of helping Fred on his own.

 

 

"Get in," he says.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander gives Fred custody of the sword and folds himself behind the wheel as Giles and Willow settle themselves in the back seat.

 

 

"There's just one small hitch in this saddling up thing," Xander says. "I have no idea where we're going. I don't suppose anyone in this vehicle already has a hotel room?"

 

 

"Don't you?" Fred asks.

 

 

"Checked out. Giles, Willow, are we going to need more space and privacy than that for rituals and all?"

 

 

"You're talking to the man who regularly conducted rites in the high school library and the science lab," Willow reminds him.

 

 

"Let me try something," Xander says. He flips open his cell and speed dials the office, asking for Marlene. "I have a logistical challenge only you can handle. I'm still in L.A., and I need a beach house I can rent for a week. Starting like five minutes from now. Money's no object."

 

 

"You don't ask for much, do you?"

 

 

"But I have the mad flattery skills that make it worthwhile."

 

 

"Mad flirting skills, more like. With a minor in bullshitting. Let me make some -- Xander?"

 

 

"Yeah?"

 

 

"You're not on your honeymoon, are you?"

 

 

"That's entirely up to _your_ skills." She's right. He's a shameless bullshitter. "Thanks, Marlene. You're a lifesaver. I won't forget this." He snaps the phone shut and slips it into his shirt pocket. He starts the car and noses it into traffic even though he's got no destination, just because he's itchy to move.

 

 

"When did you turn into Mr. Charm?" Willow asks.

 

 

"Scary, isn't it? Tell me why you changed your minds."

 

 

"What Giles said. The sight of you walking away, and thinking that it might be forever."

 

 

"And," Giles adds, "the rather belated realization that you've never given your loyalty to someone who doesn't deserve it."

 

 

"Except that one time," Xander says. "And that was a thrall."

 

 

"You're still quite talented at deflecting praise."

 

 

"It's a gift."

 

 

"There was another factor," Giles says.

 

 

There's a pause, and in the rearview Xander sees a glance pass between him and Willow.

 

 

"_What?_"

 

 

It's Willow who finally comes out with it. "I said, 'She loves him, Giles.'"

 

 

***

 

 

The car swerves just the slightest bit before Xander's brain and hands reestablish contact. "_Will._ Way to put Fred on the spot." He flicks a glance at Fred. "Sorry. That came from thirty miles south of nowhere."

 

 

"She's right," Fred says. She glances over her shoulder to the back seat. "But how did you pick up on that so fast?"

 

 

"Telling me to keep my mitts off your tree. That _had_ to have come from Xander, because it's one of his things. I dunno, I just knew."

 

 

"Forgive me for turning the magnifying glass on this, Fred," says Giles, "but I don't understand how this could be possible."

 

 

"Good metaphor, Giles. Let's not burn her to crisp on the sidewalk." He shoots a glance at Fred. "Not that _I_ ever -- there was a certain Larry...."

 

 

"Please understand, I don't doubt you," Giles adds. "It's just -- by all rights, you -- what makes you Fred -- should be --"

 

 

"Obliterated," Fred says to the windshield.

 

 

"Forgive me, but yes."

 

 

"I was."

 

 

"But there was this thing that trapped her memories," Xander says. "This nylon window. I told you this, I'm sure of it."

 

 

Giles leans forward against the seatbelt. "An Orlon Window?"

 

 

"That was it," Xander says.

 

 

Fred says, "I understood from Illyria that Angel changed the memories of everyone. About his son Connor. The true ones were held in stasis. Wesley destroyed the Window while Illyria was at his side. I guess I reinfected Illyria."

 

 

"Remarkable," Giles says.

 

 

"She's a person, not an infection," Xander says, as if it's Giles who made this analogy, and not Fred herself.

 

 

"I wonder," Giles begins, then pauses for an unconscionably long while.

 

 

"Out with it," Xander prods.

 

 

"Perhaps it would be possible to draw Illyria out of Fred, using a similar device."

 

 

Xander's heart seems to do a flip at the thought. Before anyone can respond, his cellphone trills the office ringtone. "Marlene?"

 

 

"I found something for you. A fair distance north, but it seems really spectacular." She gives him directions for the beachhouse itself and tells him where he'll find the key.

 

 

"What about their office? I'll have to pay."

 

 

"No you won't," Marlene says. "Wedding present from Henri. And he's not expecting you back in the office for a week. So get off the phone and go back to being a bridegroom."

 

 

He's going to have so much explaining to do when he gets back to the office, but for now he's glad to have the path smoothed for them.

 

 

"We've got a home base," he says to the others, and takes the turn that will set them on the right course.

 

 

***

 

 

"So what's our weapon of choice? Will the Orb of Thesulah work for a god?" Willow asks. She's instantly gone into chatter mode, with a problem to solve and an arsenal (to extend her image) of remembered solutions. "There's also the-- Fred, what was that jar called, the one that you all used to contain Angel's soul when you brought back Angelus?"

 

 

"The Muo-Ping." She's subdued, not getting into the whole _It's crazy but it just might work_ mood.

 

 

"Someday," Giles says, "I'd love to hear the logic behind that gambit. But on the subject at hand, I'm not certain either of those receptacles would be adequate for Illyria."

 

 

"Not even the Deeper Well could contain it," Fred says, and there's just the slightest trace of arrogance in her tone, that makes Xander look sharply at Fred.

 

_No no no. Not a good time to come out, Illyria._

 

 

She sees his glance and offers him a bleak smile before shifting to address Willow and Giles. "It won't work. No matter what container you settle on. Illyria's the only thing propping me up. As soon as it turns my body back over to me, I die."

 

 

"How can you be certain?" Giles asks.

 

 

"It hollowed me out to make way for its resurrection," Fred says. "There's nothing to keep me alive. I'm failing already, and Illyria with me, because it lost the support of its exoskeleton when it got stuck appearing in this form."

 

 

"It could heal you," Xander says. He flicks a glance in the rearview at Giles. "It healed Wes. He was _dead_, gutted by a wicked-looking knife. I watched her -- it -- stick its hands inside him and bring him back."

 

 

"It can't do that now," Fred says. "Even if it wanted to. It's too weak."

 

 

"There has to be an answer," Xander insists. "We've got the brain trust here. And the guy to make the donut run when your energy drops."

 

 

"We'll find something," Willow echoes. "We're good at the eleventh hour research, it's what we do."

 

_Exactly what the hell are they going to research from? A supply of old gossip magazines left in this beach house over the years?_ Xander refrains from saying any of this, but it doesn't matter much. A morose silence descends on them as they continue north. Every now and then Xander peeks over at Fred to make sure she's still alive.

 

 

"I think this is us," Xander says at last. He pulls into the drive and retrieves the key from the hiding place Marlene described to him, then he returns to help Fred up the path to the door.

 

 

"It looks wonderful," she exclaims.

 

 

He slips the key into the lock and pushes open the door, and Fred gasps in delight. It's all golden afternoon sunlight and flowers everywhere.

 

 

"Xander, it's absolutely glorious."

 

 

***

 

 

Fred visibly perks up, steaming straight for the French doors leading to the deck. "Oh." She throws them open, venturing onto the porch, leaning on the rail to peer out at the ocean. "Oh, it's perfect," she says as Xander reaches her and slips an arm around her. "You're brilliant."

 

 

"Hey, it was all Marlene. You heard my half of that transaction." He kisses her temple, gratified to sense renewed energy flowing through her. "I'm glad you're happy."

 

 

"I'm for parking myself on a deck chair and spending the whole time here, just watching and listening to the sea."

 

 

"And miss all the pretty flowers?"

 

 

"They're a bit ... funereal. Or maybe it's just me."

 

 

"I think it's just you. And may I point out, this place seems to agree with you. You seem better."

 

 

Fred turns toward him, considering. "I _feel_ better."

 

 

Willow appears in the French doors, a small card between her fingers. "'Congratulations on your special day. I _can't wait to meet your bride_'? Xander--"

 

 

"Assumptions were made. You heard me, I didn't encourage them."

 

 

"I didn't hear you discourage them, either, buster."

 

 

"It'll all get sorted out when I get back to the office." Painfully, expensively, but it'll have been worth it. "Time was at a premium. Which it still is -- let's get brainstorming."

 

 

"Your colleagues care a great deal for you," Giles says as they rejoin him in the cottage. "Not just the flowers, but muffin baskets, fruit baskets, a quite respectable vintage of champagne, and there are steaks in the refrigerator."

 

 

Xander blinks and stammers, a witty response lost to him.

 

 

"I'll put up some water for tea," Giles says.

 

 

After some clattering from the small kitchen, Giles emerges, and everyone settles themselves in the flower-festooned living room. Fred curls against Xander like a cat.

 

 

Xander says, "I have a thought. It's half-formed and a little wacky, but it's a thought."

 

 

"No self-editing," Giles says.

 

 

"I'm not exactly sure whether Illyria's pulling down Fred, or they're both sinking at once, but I got an idea. We got here, and Fred saw the flowers and the ocean, and _wham_, her energy level really kicked up. So maybe we could boost both of them by giving Illyria something -- I dunno. Something that feels like home."

 

 

Willow smirks. "One order of primordial ooze, coming right up."

 

 

"I'm serious. What was in the world when Illyria was here? Demons _and_ humans, from what she's told me. Ooze? Well, mud, we can come up with that. The ocean -- check. The stars -- check. Fire. What else?" Rutting demons, but he's not going to mention that. He has _no_ desire to see that. "Burnt offerings? Music? Drums, maybe?"

 

 

"Yes," Giles says. "And dance, of course."

 

 

"So what if we gave her those things? She's -- sorry, it -- it's homesick. This world is alien to it, incomprehensible. If Illyria's all that's propping up Fred, maybe we need to prop it up until we figure something out."

 

 

"Making it stronger may not be the wisest course, Xander."

 

 

"I was with her -- it -- when it was stronger. It loves to yak about smiting and all, but when it came down to it, all I saw it do was bring Wes back and stop time for a while. Which probably fucked LAX air traffic twelve ways from Sunday, but it's not the apocalypse."

 

 

"Its temple and armies are dust," Fred says. "Its priest is dead. Wesley did something that hampered its ability to alter time. It's diminished, and I don't think anything we do now can make it the peril you're worried about."

 

 

Giles looks as if he's about to argue, but the kettle begins to shriek, so he leaps up to attend it. It seems to take a long time for making tea, but Xander knows his habits enough to realize this is how he mulls something he's not crazy about but is beginning to consider.

 

 

"Maybe there's a spell," Willow says in the meantime.

 

 

"She's got some serious anti-mojo mojo, remember? You can't even teleport within a couple of blocks of Illyria."

 

 

Her face falls.

 

 

"We've got the notebooks," Xander says. "I don't know much about math _or_ ancient languages, but I'm betting it's as much a collaboration between human and god as anything you'll find. There might be something useful there, if Fred gives her permission to take a look."

 

 

"Of course." Fred raises up to kiss him. "You are definitely not the donut-runner."

 

 

Giles returns bearing a tray with tea things, and Willow gets up to retrieve baskets of muffins and fruit.

 

 

"It's worth the attempt," Giles says.

 

 

"Here's my recommendation of our next move," Xander says. "Giles, if you'd delve into the notebooks, see if there's something there that suggests an answer."

 

 

Giles nods.

 

 

"Will, can you gather supplies? You can get started while Giles is going through the notebooks, and he can call you on the cell if something comes up that isn't already on your list."

 

 

"Sure."

 

 

"Me, I've got the tough job. We want to keep Fred's interest level up. So I'll be out on the deck canoodling with her."

 

 

***

 

 

To his surprise, everyone jumps to implement his suggestions as if he's Henri. They finish their tea, making Willow's shopping list -- including some fresh clothes for Fred, who hands over her apartment keys, saying, "I've been wearing this damn dress for days."

 

 

Willow goes, Giles settles in with the notebooks and a hair-raisingly strong second cup of the tea he's left steeping, and Xander takes one of the fruit baskets onto the deck for adventures in vicarious eating.

 

 

Pink ribbons are beginning to streak across the western sky as he and Fred situate themselves on a double-wide deck chair.

 

 

"Xander, I can't thank you enough."

 

 

"Like I said, Marlene made the arrangements." He selects an orange and digs his thumb into its peel.

 

 

"I don't mean just this, though it couldn't be more amazing. I'm talking about all of it. You have such aplomb. How many guys would give a god a ride to Walgreen's?"

 

 

"What exactly does aplomb mean? Stupidity?"

 

 

"Stop that. It means you're unflappable. A man who can be so sweet and ... _human_ while teaching an ancient god about lovemaking...."

 

 

"Oh. Well. I've had a fair amount of experience with _Penthouse Letters of the Unexplained_. I nearly lost my virginity to a praying mantis demon. Not to mention my head." He works at the orange peel, sliding his thumb beneath the tough skin. "Imagine the embarrassment of being rescued _because_ your best friend -- that would be Willow -- knows beyond a doubt you're a virgin."

 

 

"That was when, last year?"

 

 

"Ha ha. No. I was sixteen."

 

 

"I think it's kind of sweet."

 

 

"Then there was the demon I met, coincidentally, at the hardware store."

 

 

"I thought she was an ex-demon."

 

 

"Oh, this is another one. Demon in good standing. Right now I'm just listing the supernatural chicks who've tried to kill me."

 

 

"This was your next girlfriend? After the mantis?"

 

 

"No, _this_ was last year. And it was one date. Sharp knives tend to be deal-breakers for me, even if they're ceremonial."

 

 

Fred shifts beside him, gazing at him and toying with one of his shirt buttons. "Tell me about your first time."

 

 

"First time I had someone try to kill me? That's mantis woman. Or wait -- maybe it was Ampata-- No. Definitely the mantis."

 

 

"Not that. When you lost your virginity."

 

 

He laughs, but it sounds a bit brittle. "Come to think of it, that was _another_ supernatural chick who tried to kill me. A slayer. That would be Faith."

 

 

She boosts herself up to look directly at him. "Faith? You have to tell me, what was _that_ like?"

 

 

He'd forgotten. She's met Faith, thanks to that whole _Why not let Angelus out to play?_ insanity. "Like being a leaf in a whirlwind."

 

 

"I bet." She sounds more than mildly interested, which Xander finds both disturbing and hot. "She tried to kill you?"

 

 

"That was a little later. And I would very much like to change the subject." He pulls a segment off the orange and bites it in half. Gently he rubs the other half on Fred's lower lip. "To ... oranges, let's say. How they taste like sunshine."

 

 

She slides her tongue over her lip, closing her eyes as she makes a helpless little sound of pleasure.

 

 

"There's more where that came from," Xander murmurs, then he presses his own orange-kissed lips to hers.

 

 

***

 

 

As the sunset fades and twilight gives way to dark, canoodling progresses to activities best performed in the dark -- at least when performed out of doors. They refrain from going the distance while Giles is just beyond the French doors, at least until the stereo starts playing softly.

 

 

On a scale from 1 to 10, Xander wonders, just how mortified is Giles right now? The question flits across his mind briefly, then caroms out again as Fred does something to his nipple that results in a noise that results in louder music from indoors.

 

 

By the time they subside into murmurs and caresses and lazy, lingering kisses, there are quiet voices layered beneath the music inside. Will's back. They should go inside, but Xander's reluctant to shatter this moment. Five more minutes. He snugs his arms closer around her.

 

 

The ocean breeze picks up, and Fred shivers against him.

 

 

"Want to go inside?" he asks.

 

 

"Not really. Actually, I wish we could sta--"

 

 

Xander places a finger across her lips. "I've learned it's never a good idea to say wishes out loud."

 

 

"I get the feeling there's more than birthday candle superstition at work here."

 

 

"Good guess. And let's not forget we've got a very literal-minded god on board." Much as he's loving this moment, the word _forever_ he'd sensed lingering in the air might not be so great as perpetual reality.

 

 

Fred shivers again. "Guess I'm ready to go in."

 

 

They sort out their clothes and finger-comb their hair and check each other out in the light that spills from the French doors. Xander steals one last kiss before they join Willow and Giles.

 

 

"Well, I hope you people have been using your time productively," Xander booms.

 

 

Fred takes in the collection of shopping bags that's sprouted up among the flowers and food baskets. "Clothes?" she asks hopefully.

 

 

Willow hands over a Trader Joe's bag and Fred yips with glee.

 

 

"I have to take a shower before we get started," she says. "I promise I won't be long, but I've actually been raised from the _dead_ since I had one. I don't want to start smelling like it." She looks at Xander and raises her brows in invitation.

 

 

"Be right there." As she bustles to the bathroom, he turns to Giles. "How'd it go with the notebooks?"

 

 

"Willow was right, they're fascinating. I believe I came up with enough to cobble together some incantations."

 

 

"Good. Incantations are good." He starts to follow Fred, but pauses as Giles speaks again.

 

 

"And so are your instincts. Your time with Fred seems to agree with her. She appears to be stronger. Perhaps you're right about Illyria too."

 

 

"Here's hoping." He heads for the sound of the shower.

 

 

***

 

 

Canoodling happens, and the double shower doesn't turn out to be the time saver they'd anticipated. When they're finished, Fred pulls on jeans and a sweater from her things that Willow brought, makes another pass at towel-drying her damp hair. Xander mutters as he searches his bag for his last clean shirt, then remembers he gave it to Wes. He pulls out the least disreputable one of those he's already worn, and they present themselves.

 

 

In the meantime, Giles has built a roaring fire in the hearth, and Willow is waving a burning sage bundle.

 

 

"Let's not be bogarting that fattie now," Xander says. He casts a glance back at Fred to confirm his wit, but she has closed her eyes and is breathing deep of the smoky air.

 

 

There's more than just the sage. Little black pots of herbs or something smolder here and there through the room and the smell, frankly, isn't likely to be Glade's next air freshener scent.

 

 

Giles approaches Xander with a small jar of something oily and powerfully scented. He dips two fingers into the jar and touches them to Xander's forehead. "This is oil infused with frankincense," he says.

 

 

Xander restrains himself from making the obvious monster stink joke, if barely.

 

 

Giles moves on to Fred, making with the annointing.

 

 

The muffins have disappeared into the kitchen along with most of the fruit. In place of the baskets there's a variety of drums and gourds and shaker things. Before the fireplace sits a bowl filled with fruit and a platter with a joint of roasted meat -- a leg, and nothing so dainty as a chicken or turkey.

 

 

A prickle at the back of Xander's neck tells him he's really not so sure about this whole thing. What if the rite makes Illyria stronger than either he or Fred envisioned? (What if Fred's reassurances on that score were actually Illyria giving them false information? Not that he's ever known it to lie, but it's certainly learned plenty about human behavior in recent days.) What if it doesn't become apocalypse-powerful, but draws just enough strength to regain its dominance, grinding Fred into nothingness?

 

 

He can't believe Giles has thought of none of this.

 

 

"Giles, listen..." His voice comes out weaker than he'd meant it to, lost in the sound of drums as Willow attacks one of the large ones, her sage bundle left to smolder in a clay bowl before her.

 

 

Giles joins in the drumming, and even though it's only two, the sound seems to fill the house.

 

 

Should he raise his arms and call a halt to this? Can Fred possibly survive if he does? He tentatively starts to raise a hand, as if he's back in high school and Willow's nudging him to answer some question she tutored him in the night before.

 

 

Giles catches the movement and gestures impatiently at him to make with the drumming. The rhythm calls to him too, somehow complex and primal at the same time. It stirs his blood, makes his heart race. He moves to one of the drums, still uncertain. He has zero sense of rhythm, he's known that since grade school music class with the triangles and the sleigh bells. Mrs. Hill actually asked him to stop participating.

 

 

Giles gestures at him again, and Xander tentatively slaps the drumhead. That's all it takes to bring him into the rhythm, and he gets both hands into the playing. Complex as the beat is, he has no trouble falling into time with Giles and Willow. The impact of his palms and fingers against the drumhead is satisfying, sensual, a feeling that connects with some primal memory in him that goes back beyond the reach of history. He gives in to it, letting his sense of self go and giving himself wholly to the sound flowing through his hands.

 

 

Fred steps into the center of their small circle, letting the pungent smoke from the sage curl up and around her as she sways, eyes closed. She lifts her arms up toward the ceiling, and it's then that Giles begins to chant.

 

 

***

 

 

The chanting and drumming go on for a while. Xander keeps his eyes locked on Fred, who seems like she's in some state that isn't obviously Fred, but not obviously Illyria. She's out there in the same beyond that the rest of them are inhabiting.

 

 

Without Xander's being consciously aware of it, the drumbeats have picked up in speed and complexity, all three of them playing in perfect time together. Fred's body goes stiff and she shouts two syllables in an alien tongue and an even stranger voice. As one, Giles, Willow and Xander strike their drums one last time, then silence fills the room.

 

 

She may still look like Fred, but Illyria's definitely in the house.

 

 

Her head jerks in that birdlike way as she takes in her surroundings: the offerings, the fire, the drums and drummers. She approaches Giles and eyes him intently, even as she asks Xander, "This one is he that you call Giles?"

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

Giles inclines his head. "Rupert Giles."

 

 

"Xander strongly desired that we should meet. I see now why this should be so. You are a rare human in this era, versed in the ancient ways."

 

 

"I am a Watcher, yes. We have made a study of those who came before humanity, and those who live still in realms humans rarely glimpse."

 

 

"Wesley once belonged to this secret society. He used this knowledge to hobble me, though he claimed it was for my benefit. He reviled me at first, then came to tolerate me. To one such as I, his attentions were as ashes in the mouth of a starving man."

 

 

Xander's not sure where she's going with this. Neither, apparently, is Giles, who waits, silent but respectful.

 

 

She glances around the room. "You devised this ritual. Arranged these offerings and devised the incantation, for it corresponds to no rites that I have known."

 

 

Giles nods. "I took the information I had at hand and tried my best with it. I hope it wasn't displeasing."

 

 

It's not kowtowing, exactly, but it's unnerving enough to see Giles placating something on the order of Illyria. Xander feels a prickle of warning at the back of his neck.

 

 

"You are the first human I've encountered with the skill, understanding and worthiness to be my Qwa'ha Xahn. My last priest, the one who engineered my resurrection --" she makes a disgusted face -- "he took his station lightly. He spoke to me as if I were on his level. Had Wesley not killed him, I would have done so myself. He covered the priesthood with shame." She cocks her head, regarding him. "But you, Rupert Giles. You have enough knowledge to honor and fear what I am. With a worthy Qwa'ha Xahn at my side, I could grow mighty again. Knees would bend and heads would bow before the god-king Illyria once more."

 

 

***

 

 

Xander notices a slight flexing of the fingers of Giles's right hand. It's a subtle movement, but Xander's suddenly certain beyond doubt that his samurai sword is stashed somewhere in this room.

 

 

He draws a breath, but he's not sure whether it's just a gasp of recognition or preparation for a warning. Before he can speak, Illyria goes on.

 

 

"So speaks a part of me that clings to the past, that scrabbles after what is lost. But these are the lies of a desperate creature. I cannot say why, but I value the appearance of a worthy Qwa'ha Xahn far less than the steadfast presence of a friend." Here she casts a look toward Xander.

 

 

Giles blinks. "A friend?"

 

 

"A ludicrous thing to imagine, for one who knew love and worship and fear from my followers, who dealt in betrayals as readily as your kind breathes. Yet this human has become important to me. He lies not, nor does he flatter. He has sought to save my life for reasons I cannot fathom. Even before Winifred Burkle manifested herself, he wished to help me."

 

 

"He is a remarkable man," Giles says.

 

 

Xander notices the subtle changes in his posture, an ease that replaces the battle-ready stance of a moment ago. He releases a breath, relieved he won't have to explain a beheading in the honeymoon cottage to the rental agent, much less Henri.

 

 

"Though you acted as priest," she says to Giles, "was it not Xander who led you to do so? Who sought to give me that which I have not known in these long centuries of sleep?"

 

 

"It _was_ his idea," Will says.

 

 

Illyria turns toward Xander. "No other would have thought to do these things. Is this not friendship?"

 

 

"It is," Xander says.

 

 

She gazes at him for a long moment, an expression on her face that's hard to read, mainly because she so rarely wears one. He waits, thinking she has more to say, but at last she turns from him and seats herself on the floor by the fire. She stares into its hypnotic, changing form.

 

 

At last she speaks, in a low voice the reminds him of the night they met.

 

 

"I wish to quit this body," she says.

 

 

***

 

 

"What?" Xander blurts.

 

 

"I wish to be finished with this world."

 

 

She turns her gaze from the fire and back to Xander, who breaks through his momentary paralysis to move to her and sit at her side by the hearth.

 

 

She goes on: "Your efforts to remind me of my own world have pleased me greatly. Yet they recall what I was once and can never be again." She touches the edge of the platter with the roasted meat. "There was a time when my followers would slaughter entire herds of cattle to beg my favor. There would be great feasting followed by crushing hunger. This they did for me, dooming their families to starvation because it pleased me."

 

_There's your trouble right there_, Xander thinks but does not say. _That's why your cult isn't around anymore._

 

 

"Well before the humans rose, we gods fought one another for sport. Our battles raged across the face of the world, rending the land beneath our feet until it separated into the mighty islands you call continents. Where is a worthy opponent for me now? To fight with your kind is but to flick at an insect, to prod it and pull its wings off for amusement. Even bullies grow weary of such sport."

 

 

She'd make a helluva sparring partner for the baby slayers, he thinks, but he knows without doubt that she would hate being somebody's trick lion, reduced to lunging at chair legs.

 

 

"Your kind has created reservations for the lesser beasts."

 

 

Xander furrows his brow. "Reservations?"

 

 

"Artificial homelands, contained within cages. So humans may come and gaze upon them."

 

 

"_Zoos,_ you mean?"

 

 

"Yes. I have seen films of these." Illyria gestures at the big flat-screen TV, still dark and silent. "The despair of the creatures who dwell there is obvious to anyone with eyes. I will not be a beast in a cage."

 

 

"Illyria, no one wants that," Xander protests.

 

 

"It is not your intent. Yet your world has shrunk so that it can be nothing but a cage for me. No matter how you dressed it up to resemble my own world, it would be a bitter reminder to me. I could never abide such a stunted existence. I prefer to sink back into oblivion."

 

 

Xander casts a helpless look toward Giles, then turns his attention back to Illyria. "But if you do that, Fred dies."

 

 

***

 

 

Illyria holds him in her gaze. "You have the yen for Winifred."

 

 

"I guess I do."

 

 

"It is plain to see. She has lifted the sorrow from you. This is what humans do for one another, is it not? This is what it means to have the yen."

 

 

"If love is good, yes. This is why we look for it."

 

 

She looks into the fireplace, mulling this over. After several long moments, she turns toward him again, her face pinkened by the heat of the fire.

 

 

"I will not be the cause of more grief for you. To think of you with the sickness of soul you once carried, this brings me distress. I have seen this when it is fresh, with Wesley. I found it almost beyond endurance."

 

 

Xander almost smiles at the _all about me_ness of it. Well, Illyria is a god, after all. What else can you expect? "What's the answer, then?" he asks her. "Either way, one of us suffers. And there's Fred, who endured one pretty horrific death already."

 

 

"She has been a worthy vessel. I see why my Qwa'ha Xahn chose her, though he was a fool in many respects."

 

 

"Vessel," Xander repeats. "Not a shell."

 

 

She inclines her head. "I no longer view her as such. She was beloved by many. Wesley and Charles Gunn. Angel and the demon Lorne. My Qwa'ha Xahn. She has seen the creation of all, and translated it to these equations she has recorded in her parchments. They sing in her head like music. Her joy in the workings of the universe does me honor just as you have honored me in this rite."

 

 

To his surprise, Xander finds tears shimmering in his eyes.

 

 

Illyria's gaze grows more intense. "You have an eye which is dead, yet it weeps too."

 

 

Xander shrugs. "It's normal. Normal for a one-eyed guy."

 

 

She reaches out, her hand hovering by his false eye. "You weep for Winifred Burkle." She touches a finger to a tear that's spilled over.

 

 

"What you said about her. That was really something."

 

 

"I will sleep."

 

 

"A touch of vertigo here. What?"

 

 

"I will retreat into sleep within Winifred's body. My presence will sustain her life, but she will retain control over her senses and tongue and flesh."

 

 

"You can do that?"

 

 

"I slept through millennia in the Deeper Well. I knew nothing of my surroundings, but it was a place that held nothing but the husks of dead gods, allies and enemies alike. Should I choose oblivion now, I choose it knowing I would be surrounded by my friend and my vessel. That I would perhaps be remembered."

 

 

"Of course you'd be remembered."

 

 

"Though it was my undoing, rutting with you was most pleasurable. I do not regret asking this of you."

 

 

Xander's cheeks flame. Will and Giles have been damn quiet through all this, but he knows they're still in the room. But what the hell, now they know. "Me either."

 

 

"I ask two more small favors. It would please me if you would press your lips to mine once more."

 

 

Feeling a surge of relief that Illyria didn't ask him to rut with her on the spot, he nods. "Of course." He reaches for her, caressing her cheek as he leans in for the kiss. Illyria's learned something from her mingling with Fred, because there's none of the awkward tension in her as she parts her lips to let him deepen the kiss.

 

 

When they finally break the kiss, she smiles. "It is good to know I still stir you," she says. She touches her hand to the side of his face, but this gesture she doesn't quite have down -- briefly she cups her palm over the left eye before trailing her fingers through his hair.

 

 

"There was another favor you wanted," Xander prompts.

 

 

"I wish your company while I sink back into sleep."

 

 

"Of course. There's probably a really nice sleep dais in the other room."

 

 

"Let us not tarry, then. I would go while the memory of this kiss is still fresh." She rises, glancing at Giles and Willow, who sit close together on the sofa, somber. "You may drum for me." She turns in dismissal, seeking out Xander. He takes her hand and leads her toward the bedroom.

 

 

***

 

 

Through the closed door Xander can hear the drumming begin, a slow, quiet pulsing with the rhythm of a heartbeat. "What would you like?" he asks Illyria. "I can sit by you, I can hold your hand or get in bed and put my arms around you. We can spoon. It's up to you."

 

 

"What is this spooning?"

 

 

"That's when two people lie together, facing in the same direction, with one person's body snugged behind the other's. Like spoons in a silverware drawer." As if she has any experience with that. "It's nice."

 

 

"This would suit me." She settles herself on the bed, facing the ceiling, her limbs straight and stiff.

 

 

"No, not facing the same direction that way. You spoon lying on your side. Knees bent a little. That's it, that's perfect." He moves onto the bed behind her. "Just curl into me, like this." He slides an arm around her waist and guides her toward him. "There. Another human experience."

 

 

"It is quite pleasant."

 

 

"It is." Xander strokes her hair. "Very relaxing."

 

 

"How strange to know I am moving toward oblivion. When I last ceased, I was cut down in battle. I was, then I was not. I knew nothing until I awakened in this body. It is strange to cease slowly."

 

 

"Winding down," he murmurs. "Like an old-fashioned watch. It's peaceful. Everything slows down until it's barely noticeable when it stops."

 

 

"Peaceful. Nothing of my existence has been peaceful. Save for this."

 

 

"I thought I was going to die once. Well, more than once. But there was this one time, in the middle of the most chaotic night, and I was sure I was going to get blown up by this psychotic zombie. And deep down I got this incredible sense of stillness. Epiphanies are kind of ephemeral, so it wasn't as life-changing as I hoped, but I find it now and then." Under other conditions, these thoughts might express themselves as babbling, but he delivers them in a soft, dreamy tone, meant to soothe her passage into the dark.

 

 

Illyria doesn't respond, and Xander wonders if she's already gone. He's not ready to check. He stays with his arm around her, courting sleep. He's so very tired. But the sadness building in him doesn't want to release him into sleep. Tears gather beneath his lashes, and he welcomes them, if he can't have rest. But they irritate his left eye, already bothered by all the smoke. Xander can't even remember when he last used the drops he's supposed to use with the prosthesis.

 

 

Careful not to jostle Illyria, he slips out of bed. He peers at her, and it's clear Elvis has left the building. His eye stings with fresh tears and he rummages through his bag for a fresh bottle of drops. Once he has them in hand, Xander opens the door to the living room where Willow and Giles still play the soft rhythm on their drums. "She's gone."

 

 

"How are you?" Will asks.

 

 

"I'm okay. Exhausted. Starving. I'm planning to sit by Fred till she emerges, so I was wondering if one of you would mind making up a plate for me."

 

 

"Of course," she says, getting to her feet.

 

 

His fingers fumble with the safety seal on the bottle of drops, as the irritation rises from the smoke lingering in the room. Suddenly it goes from stinging to searing pain, as if there's a sharp edge pressing into something in the eye socket.

 

 

"Fuck!" Xander folds over at the waist, dropping the bottle to scrabble at his eye. "Ow! _Fuck!_"

 

 

Giles rushes to his side. "Xander, what is it?"

 

 

"Eye." As gently as he can in his frenzy, he pulls at the skin below his ruined eye, letting the prosthesis drop into his other palm. "Sorry. Gross, but -- Feels like something's--" He blinks furiously through a wash of tears.

 

 

"Let me see." Giles's hands help him upright.

 

 

"Wow. It's easing, but--" He sniffles sharply, tilts his chin up at the urging of Giles's fingers.

 

 

Giles sucks in a breath.

 

 

"Oh god, what?" Xander blurts.

 

 

"There is something in there."

 

 

"_What?_"

 

 

Giles gently covers Xander's right eye with his palm and Xander sees what he's talking about.

 

 

He _sees_.

 

 

***

 

 

Giles backs Xander against the doorjamb and takes a close look at the eye.

 

 

"How does it look?"

 

 

"Quite normal. A bit red-rimmed, but no worse than those all-night library sessions."

 

 

Willow emerges from the kitchen. "Tea and muffins, or beer and-- What happened?"

 

 

Xander turns toward her, opening his palm to reveal the prosthetic eye. "Parting gift."

 

 

Willow gasps and hurries to him. "Wow. Xander. Wow. How's your vision?"

 

 

"A little misty still, but it's been getting sharper by the second."

 

 

"That's amazing, that's --" She throws her arms around Xander, and he hears and feels her sniffles as he holds her.

 

 

Though his own eyes are a little damp, he offers a grin to Giles over Willow's shoulder, only to see that Giles is busily massaging his forehead in a way that shields his eyes. The weight of their relief and joy hits him, making it clear just how much of their own reaction to his maiming they've been hiding for his benefit this last year. It's apparent, too, when Willow releases him and Giles gives him a manly, back-thumping hug.

 

 

"I can't believe how much I miss you guys, and yet you're right here," Xander says.

 

 

"I don't get it," Willow says.

 

 

"I mean, I've been missing you, but I wasn't aware of it until now. It's just hitting me. I needed to separate, I'm not sorry I did, and my god, I love blowing shit up. But I think maybe it's time to come back. If, y'know, there's room for a one-eyed -- oh. For a demon-attracting demolitions expert with normal depth perception."

 

 

"I believe we happen to have an opening," Giles says, repressing joy for all he's worth.

 

 

Xander suddenly remembers something. "You called me a remarkable man."

 

 

"I did. I meant it." Suddenly he seizes Xander and pounds his back some more. "Welcome home."

 

 

In this moment, Xander feels more whole than he did with the restoration of his eye.

 

 

***

 

 

There's the awkward disengaging, then the awkward foot-shuffling and mopping of faces. "I should get back to Fred," Xander says, and he's not even saying it to escape (though he totally would). "I have no idea when she'll wake up."

 

 

"I'll get a tray together," Willow says.

 

 

The bed is incredibly tempting, but Xander knows if he stretches out, he'll be down for the count. He pulls a chair to the bedside and says softly, "I'm here, Fred. Right next to the sleep dais."

 

 

She looks just as husklike as she had when Illyria first departed. Xander feels a stab of anxiety that Fred was swept along with Illyria, lost forever.

 

 

"No," he mutters. She's just building her strength, that's all. He watches her as he sometimes watched Anya as she slept, but it's different. Fred's not asleep, and there are no microexpressions flitting across her face, no sighs or squirming or adorably unattractive lip-smacking. Fred doesn't seem to be in there at all.

 

 

There's a quick rap at the bedroom door, then Willow comes in with a tray. "I went with tea instead of beer, since I thought beer might interfere with the whole vigil thing."

 

 

"Thanks. Good idea. No need to whisper, by the way. She's not asleep, really."

 

 

"You look worried."

 

 

"No. Yes. A little. Stay for a while."

 

 

Willow sits on the carpet at his feet, putting a hand on his leg. "She'll be okay. She was gaining strength, and Illyria will help stabilize her, just like she said."

 

 

"Maybe. What if giving me my eye back took too much out of her? You didn't see, Will. Bringing Wes back really cost Illyria."

 

 

A shadow crosses over Willow's face, but she doesn't respond.

 

 

"What? You saw Wes after I did. How was he?"

 

 

"He's in terrible shape."

 

 

"I tried to get him to go to Giles. Think we should try to pull him into the fold?"

 

 

"Okay, speaking as someone who went totally off the deep end from grief, I don't trust him, and I don't want to be around him. And I feel bad about that, because if someone hadn't gone after me, you know where I'd be."

 

 

"Well, I'm sure being near Fred is not the cure for what ails him. Though god knows if she'll have any interest in the Council anyway."

 

 

"Wes has a serious thing for Fred, doesn't he?"

 

 

Xander nods. "He loves her, and seeing her die, then seeing Illyria running around in her body, kind of sent him over the edge. Things got worse after that. She doesn't remember being in love with him, She's got Fred memories that were held in the window thing, and Illyria memories after it took her over, but there's a dead zone in between. Their history's lost in that. Plus, Fred's furious about something he did that I won't go into, and she let him know she's not about to forgive him."

 

 

"Ouch. That's got its own over-the-edginess. I know that from experience, too."

 

 

"So he's got grief craziness and 'I broke the relationship' craziness on _top_ of brought-back-from-the-dead craziness. Why do I see big messy times ahead?"

 

 

Willow rubs a comforting hand on his knee. "Because you have an infinite capacity for foreseeing disaster. Luckily, those are the ones that never happen, instead it's the ones that blindside you."

 

 

"You know, I've never been that fond of the word 'blindside.'"

 

 

She grins. "I guess not. Maybe we should send Buffy to him, and Giles. Giles is really good, post-deep-endy. And Buffy knows the whole set of yanked-from-the-grave issues."

 

 

"I thought he should talk to her too. Maybe we should force a meeting, before he decides to work through his issues by having sex with Spike."

 

 

That produces a sputter of suppressed laughter. "Xander!"

 

 

"Who knows, he could come back again. He had, you know. Come back. Illyria told me he was at the big battle where Angel and Charles Gunn bought it."

 

 

"Spike? How?"

 

 

Xander shrugs. "Don't know. Guess he can't stand to miss an apocalyptic battle. Illyria seemed kind of impressed. Apparently he was a maniac in that fight."

 

 

"Hard to believe Angel's gone. Spike I'm used to by now, so hearing he came back and then dusted again doesn't have the same effect. But Angel-- Buffy was pretty certain when she heard the news about Wolfram &amp; Hart and the hotel."

 

 

"How is she?"

 

 

"She started grieving when she heard he went to Wolfram &amp; Hart, that's what I think. When I left to come here, she was sad, but okay." Willow turns her face up toward him. "She'll be glad to have you around again."

 

 

He'll be glad to be around.

 

 

***

 

 

After a while Willow leaves him to the whole vigil thing, joining Giles to discuss the whole Wes rehabilitation thing. Xander hears the murmur of their voices from the next room, but can't make out the words. Truth is, he's not really trying. Instead he tries to will Fred to awaken. Or maybe he's praying. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes.

 

 

Occasionally, for variety, he ponders how he'll break the news to Henri that he's quitting -- _and_ that he took the beach house and the muffin baskets under false pretenses. Not that he's meant to defraud anyone; he'll scrape together money somehow to pay everyone back. But the entire business -- and its timing -- is sure to leave a bad taste in Henri's mouth. He's put in time and energy teaching Xander what he knows, and he's been a good boss.

 

 

This will be the first job Xander leaves of his own volition -- till now it's always been by firing or unnatural disaster. He hates to walk away, but he knows he's walking to something that he needs. Something that needs him, maybe.

 

 

Being back with the Scoobies will be familiar and yet new. He'd just fallen into it at the start, and there were times when he felt more like a liability than a sidekick. Coming back with the official, Giles-approved designation _Remarkable Man_, that will be something. He knows he'd grown up a lot his last year or two in Sunnydale, but everything changed when Anya died. Maturing got put on hold and somehow fast-forwarded, both at once. A thought that makes no sense whatsoever, so Xander goes back to willing Fred awake.

 

 

Who'd have thought, after the smackdown from the crazy blue-haired bitch in Home Depot, that he was on the path to meeting the woman he loved? (And who'd have figured on him finding a friend and one-time rutting partner in said god-king bitch?) What are the odds of him meeting another girl with a demon-fighting background, someone who didn't go running at the first sign of supernatural weirdness? (Well, okay, if she's the delicious nougat center wrapped in crazy demon-god chocolate coating, the chances of _him_ meeting her are actually fairly high. But still.)

 

 

He can't lose her. To meet the girl who lifted the sorrow from him, as Illyria put it, and then lose her within days -- no.

 

 

He keeps his vigil through the night, but eventually he nods off in the chair. It's the smallest sound that wakes him, once the bedroom is drenched in daylight.

 

 

A tiny gasp, where before there had only been the sound of his own breathing. Xander looks behind him to see if Willow's returned, but he's still alone, the door closed.

 

 

No, not alone. There's the woman in the king-size bed, whose chest rises and falls with the slow, deep rhythm of sleep.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander expects her to awaken once she draws that sharp little breath, but she sleeps on. Now, however, it _is_ sleep. Though the movements are subtle and the sounds she makes are soft, the terrible stillness of before is gone. He watches her as he had before, but the worry is slowly seeping away, making him aware of how tense his shoulders and neck are.

 

 

She's not just back in her body, but alive. How odd that he hadn't much noticed her lack of breath, except as she lay here awaiting rebirth. But, except for the gasps she'd made during sex (which were probably patterns imprinted so deeply in Fred's body that they came whether she needed them or not), Illyria could as easily have walked on the moon's surface or the ocean floor, for all the air she needed.

 

 

He's certain Illyria has not just left control of the body to Fred, but restored it, just as she'd restored Wes and recreated Xander's eye. He suspects she's filled the shell with everything that used to be there. Everything human: taco eating, sneezing, sighing, hiccuping, champagne drinking, farting in bed (something he knows occurs, however vehemently denied by Anya).

 

 

Alive. He wonders now if Wes was right not to tell Fred's parents she was dead, whatever his reasons. They're having their dream vacation, unsullied by the thought of their only daughter's death. And when they return, there she'll be, as if nothing had ever happened. He wonders if this realization will make it easy for her to forgive Wes. An unworthy part of Xander hopes desperately that it doesn't make it easy for her to fall back in love with him.

 

 

Fred deserves to be happy, whoever it's with.

 

 

But he wants it to be with Xander and no one else.

 

 

A selfish desire, but he's willing to admit to that.

 

 

The sound of her breath changes, the slow, deep rhythm giving way to shallower and quicker, punctuated by an occasional long inhalation accompanied by a catlike stretch. She's emerging.

 

 

He watches, marveling at the everyday wonder of it. She stretches, makes little noises. How human it is, and yet how animal. That simple joy in the body that people have in sleep, even if they forget it during their waking moments. Xander resolves to try to remember it today, all day. To _never_ forget to take joy in good ol' binocular vision. Depth perception.

 

 

Fred sucks in another deep breath and opens her eyes. "Hey, you," she says.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander smiles. "Hey, yourself. How are you?"

 

 

"_Dying_ to pee. Stay right there, because we're going to have take two on this moment." She scrambles off the bed and scampers to the master bath.

 

 

After a moment the toilet flushes, and Fred returns at a slightly more sedate pace. Climbing onto the bed, she settles into the position she'd awakened in, closes her eyes, then reopens them. "Hey, you."

 

 

Xander's smile has widened into a grin. "Hey, yourself. Actually, the first take was fine. Urge to pee, that's amazingly good news. Illyria said she -- sorry, it --" though he thinks of Illyria as "she," it seems bad form to do so to the woman whose body it stole -- "could sustain you, but it didn't say anything about restoring you. You can have your tacos the normal way now."

 

 

She sits up on the bed, legs crossed. "Believe me, I'll be getting around to that. I'm about three seconds away from ravenous, now that my entire brain isn't taken up with the desire to pee. It was for you Illyria did that. Illyria wanted you to be happy."

 

 

Xander shakes his head. "It wasn't just about me. Illyria thought well of you too. You're excited about the universe, and Illyria took that as its proper due. Besides, I got my own parting gift."

 

 

Fred tilts her head to regard him, in a way that both reminds him of Illyria but is nothing like her. "There is something different about you."

 

 

"Illyria did a little restoration work on me, too. Shiny new eye."

 

 

"I didn't realize your old one was that grubby."

 

 

"It was a very good fake. An implant. So what would the reborn woman like for her first meal?"

 

 

"You're very good at deflecting attention from yourself."

 

 

"Apparently not _that_ good."

 

 

"I want to know you. I mean, I already know a lot of the important stuff, like what kind of man you are. But all the details that go along with that, I hardly know any of that."

 

 

"Well, we have this place for another six days, if you don't have anywhere else you need to be."

 

 

"Noplace but here." She runs her hand over the bedspread in invitation.

 

 

Xander needs no further encouragement. Settling on the bed next to her, he gathers her in his arms and leans back against the padded headboard. "Funny," he says, then cuts himself off.

 

 

"What?" She tilts her face toward him, sees his guarded expression. "_What?_"

 

 

He sighs, wishing he hadn't brought it up. "I was just thinking it's strange being on a honeymoon without a wedding. Before, I had the wedding and no honeymoon. Well. Not all of the wedding, not the all-important getting married part. But the hall and the musicians and the bridesmaids in terrible dresses and the best man in a terrible dress -- that would be Willow --" He cuts himself off, sketches a smile. "That's what those details are like. And really, the whole 'what kind of man' deal, too."

 

 

Fred shifts, the better to look at him. "Are you trying to run me off so you can have the cottage and the muffin baskets all to yourself?"

 

 

Is he? He wonders. "No. Not at all. But I --"

 

 

Fred puts three fingertips to his lips. "Then shut up and kiss me."

 

 

***

 

 

Some time later, they emerge for an enormous breakfast, and Xander discovers Fred loves pancakes as much as she loves tacos. Fred sits in the sunny window seat, her bare feet tucked up on the cushion. Xander keeps sneaking looks at them. They're the prettiest feet, he decides, that he's seen in a whole lifetime.

 

 

Giles cooks, doing very good eggs and trying his hand at pancakes, which could be better but you'd never know it by Fred, who puts away three not-so-short stacks as she and Willow chatter away about science stuff that makes Xander's head hurt. It's okay. He admires her feet and marvels at the two smartest women he'll ever meet.

 

 

After a while he steps out onto the deck and dials the office, asks for Henri.

 

 

"What the hell are you doing yammering on the phone?" Henri demands by way of greeting. "Get back in the sack."

 

 

"We're having a sustenance break," Xander says. "I wanted to invite you out to the beachhouse later today to meet some people."

 

 

"Sure, yeah," he says, and all the bluff jokeyness has gone from his voice. "I'd like that. So who'd you end up with, anyway? The wild blue-haired chick, or the sweet little thing?"

 

_Yes_, Xander thinks. "Come on out tonight and see for yourself."

 

 

***

 

 

His nerves are quivering throughout the afternoon as he awaits Henri's arrival. He paces the cottage looking for any remnants of their ritual to clean away, but Giles and Willow have already taken care of that. There's just the notebooks, and now a sheaf of notes Giles has accumulated while studying them. He leaves those. They make Giles look substantial. Not that he doesn't already, he's the very epitome of substance, but Xander is after all jumping from Henri's camp to Giles's, and well, he wants Henri to feel --

 

 

Well, what? This is stupid. It's like dumping a woman and wanting to be sure she knows you're not dumping her for a skank, but someone who's so much prettier and smarter than she is. It's not going to go over well no matter who the other party is. Henri's poured time and energy into his training, been his friend, and he's tossing all that aside, at least from Henri's point of view.

 

 

No, _this_ is stupid. It's a job, not a relationship. Or that kind of relationship, anyway. Walking away won't get him a load of cement poured into his Porsche convertible. Not that he _has_ a Porsche convertible.

 

 

"This is stupid," he mutters.

 

 

"Come over here," Fred says. "I'll give you a neckrub."

 

 

"I'm too freaked out for a neckrub. Someday I'll tell you why hands on my neck isn't the most soothing sensation for me."

 

 

"Stop worrying," Willow says. "Henri's a pussycat."

 

 

"I've been lying to him." He waves his arm around the room. "All this. You _know_ how much this had to cost. The rental, the flowers, the muffins. It's all ill-gotten muffins."

 

 

"If he doesn't take it well," Giles said, "you _do_ have the samurai sword."

 

 

"Oh ha ha. You're quite the card when you're in a good mood, Giles." He hears the crunch of tires on gravel. "Fuck! He's here!"

 

 

Xander is doomed.

 

 

***

 

 

Accustomed as he is to jumping into deadly frays, Xander goes out to meet Henri on the path to the house. "Glad you could make it!" he booms. He sounds like Uncle Rory during his used car selling phase.

 

 

Henri eyes him. "You're supposed to be nervous _before_ the wedding, Xander."

 

 

"Hahaha, you're too much. C'mon in and meet people." He leads Henri inside. "You remember my friend Willow."

 

 

"I do." Henri takes her hand and kisses it. This is what makes Xander remember the French background: Henri manages not to look like a dork when he does it -- he even manages not to look like he feels like a dork. Xander will never be this smooth.

 

 

"And this is my friend Rupert Giles."

 

 

This hand he only shakes. "I've heard a lot about you."

 

 

"I've heard a great deal about you as well," Giles responds. "I'm pleased to meet you at last."

 

 

"And here's the blushing bride." Henri says. He takes her by the shoulders and kisses her cheek. "I know Xander introduced us, but --"

 

 

"Winifred Burkle," she reminds him. "Fred. Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything?"

 

 

"No, I'm good," Henri says.

 

 

They all settle in the flower-filled living room.

 

 

Xander dives in. "So Henri. Listen --"

 

 

Henri listens, but that's all Xander has for the moment. Fred takes his hand and he starts again.

 

 

"So I need to tell you some things. When I called Marlene, things were a little dire. We needed a place to be, and assumptions were made, and I didn't have time to set her straight. But I need to be honest. Well -- Fred and I aren't married."

 

 

Henri eyes them both.

 

 

Xander waves his hand around the room. "This was amazing, and I'm really touched. I'll pay you back for all of it, I swear."

 

 

"I give it six months," Henri says. "Tops."

 

 

For a second Xander thinks he means repayment, but then he realizes Henri's talking about him and Fred. Damn, that's harsh.

 

 

Henri cracks a grin. "I had the same stupid look on my face when I met Sylvie. We were married in four months." He _still_ gets the stupid-in-love look on his face when he's around his wife.

 

 

"No no no," Xander says. His cheeks are blazing. "Fred's a scientist. A physicist. Brilliant. She could kick Stephen Hawking's _ass_ \-- oh, that didn't sound right. What I mean --"

 

 

"She's too good for you."

 

 

"Exactly."

 

 

"I take back what I said. You'll be hitched in six weeks."

 

 

Fred says, "I have to set things straight too." Good. Another voice of reason. "I could _not_ kick the ass of Stephen Hawking." She's enjoying this hugely, and so are Giles and Willow. "I'm extremely ABD."

 

 

"ABD?" Xander echoes. "C'mon, I got tested for that, but even I was only borderline."

 

 

Fred laughs, and it's such a pretty, silvery sound. She kisses him on the cheek. "It means 'All but dissertation.' I'm still a mere grad student, and I've been sidetracked lately."

 

 

"I'll pay all this back," Xander promises again.

 

 

Henri shrugs. "I'm not worried." Sure. But give him a minute.

 

 

"There's one more thing I need to tell you." Xander exhales nervously and Fred tightens her grip on his hand. "I, uh, I'm giving notice. Plenty of notice, a couple of months if you need. But I've decided that where I'm meant to be is working with Giles and Willow."

 

 

This is the first thing that shakes Henri's aplomb. "At a think tank for study of ancient languages and cultures?"

 

 

"Ah. Well." He takes a deep breath and decides to skate closer to the truth than he normally does with outsiders. "This think tank has a samurai sword swinging arm. If you get my drift."

 

 

Henri looks at them all for a moment, brow furrowed. Then he apparently recalls the thing which attacked Tim in the ruins of Wolfram &amp; Hart, and Xander's ease in swinging the sword. "Ah. Drift received. That Wolfram &amp; Hart, that was a bad place."

 

 

"It was."

 

 

"Sunnydale, that was a bad place too?"

 

 

"Yeah."

 

 

Henri nods. "Some places are. If there's anything you're better suited for than bringing down buildings, it's _that_. That's how it looked to me."

 

 

"Have you enountered other bad places in your line of work, Henri?" Giles asks.

 

 

"A few times, yeah."

 

 

"Perhaps we can help each other out, if you alert us to these places."

 

 

"I like that idea," Henri says. "When you bring a place down, you need to know _everything_. And if a big, swingin' --" he pauses just enough for Xander's cheeks to redden again -- "samurai sword is called for, I'd like to have Xander on site." Then he launches into the story of Xander's fight with that Tak horn thing, descriptive enough that he's clearly been thinking about what happened and not duping himself about what he saw.

 

 

Much to his surprise, Giles counters with the story of how they blew up Sunnydale High School -- and more shockingly, why. Henri eats the story up with a spoon.

 

 

"It was effective," Giles says, "but it would have been much more elegant if we'd had your help."

 

 

"Actually," Xander says, "you can't implode anything shorter than five stories. I'd say you did just fine on your own."

 

 

"You didn't say you had experience when I hired you," Henri says, grinning.

 

 

"Because telling you I had a hand in blowing up my high school would have made me _so_ much more employable."

 

 

Everyone laughs and Fred brings out the champagne and Willow suggests they break out the stakes.

 

 

"I dunno, Will, that's a little hardcore. Give the guy time to adjust."

 

 

"_Steaks_, dumbass. S-T-E-A-K-S." She smiles at Henri. "Stay for dinner?"

 

 

"I'd love to."

 

 

***

 

 

Same beach house, another gathering.

 

 

Henri's at this one too, and so's Marlene, Thierry, Tim, Eileen and everyone else on the team. And everyone from his other life, too. Giles and Willow, of course, and Buffy and Dawn. Faith came too, though Xander knows she had to be talked into it. According to Buffy, she's feeling weird about their history.

 

 

The ceremony's over, and the barbecue's in full swing (something Anya would never have gone for). He and Fred are doing the mandatory table-to-table stroll, chatting up the guests. Everyone's completely charmed by Fred, who's been chattering in her excitement like a speed freak on a Twinkie high, her Texas accent dialed up to eleven.

 

 

Their first stop, of course, is Roger and Trish's table. They're seated with Giles and his date (Xander _has_ been away a long time -- Giles is dating again) and Henri and Sylvie.

 

 

Trish enfolds Fred in a hug. "I can't get over how beautiful you are," she says, for about the nineteenth time. "You look so happy."

 

 

"See what happens when you leave the country?" Roger says. "Your only daughter meets a new fella and falls head over heels."

 

 

"We didn't leave the country," Trish says.

 

 

"All those hours on a plane, we might as well have. Rupert and Henri here, they've been telling us all about you, Xander."

 

 

"Oh," Xander says brightly. "Really." To his own ears his voice sounds constricted (could be because his airway is convulsing shut) and falsely chirpy. Chirpy is not a mode he does well.

 

 

"When we were last in town I thought you were leaning in a different direction, Fred," Trish says.

 

 

"Our daughter has good instincts. That Wes -- well, there was something squirrely about him. He was awful twitchy last time we saw him." Roger has good instincts himself. Squirrely is the word. Buffy's been on special assignment with the Council these last weeks, working to help desquirrel him. It's slow going.

 

 

"Daddy--"

 

 

"Well, Fred was acting a little funny too," Trish says. "_Something_ was going on in that horrible place." She flicks a glance at Henri and Sylvie, then clams up. She's got the Sunnydale instincts, all right. "You're well out of there, honey."

 

 

"All those lawyers," Roger adds.

 

 

"We're holding you up," Trish says. "You two make your rounds."

 

 

"We'll have time for a good talk later tonight," Fred promises.

 

 

Trish gives her another hug, then bestows one on Xander. Despite the daytime wedding and casual reception, she's decked out in a sparkly mother-of-the-bride dress. It makes for a scratchy hug, but scratchy never felt so good.

 

 

***

 

 

The band is setting down their instruments for a break, but Xander doesn't feel inclined to stop holding Fred. It's a little bittersweet, this moment, because he can't help but think of the wedding he didn't have, of Anya in her sleek gown, tears streaking down her face. All smashed, all his fault.

 

_Maybe if you hadn't been there, you couldn't have gotten to here._

 

 

He doesn't know if it's true, but he decides he needs to believe it is.

 

 

He steps back so he can take her in, doll pretty in her cream colored fairy-tale dress. Shining, happy. He can do this, make someone feel that way. Henri promises this can last. Xander can believe it, looking at him and Sylvie, who've matched Xander and Fred dance for dance.

 

 

"Can I get you more champagne?" he asks.

 

 

"I'm giddy enough," she says. "Make it seltzer with lime."

 

 

Xander heads over to the bar, waving off offers to let him cut to the front of the line. He's happy to watch her from afar as she forms a huddle with Buffy and Thierry, who've been dancing together. A lot.

 

 

"I told you you wouldn't last six weeks," Henri says as he joins him at the bar.

 

 

Xander grins. He's not going to tell Henri they bumped the wedding up by a week to lose the bet on purpose. "Guess we owe you and Sylvie a night out, then."

 

 

"Shit," Henri says, which was not the response Xander was expecting. His gaze narrows on the upper level of the deck. "You did bring that samurai sword, didn't you?"

 

_Shit._ Xander looks upward too, and spots a very green demon in a very loud suit, standing at the railing gazing down. "Y'know, just once I'd like to throw a wedding that _wasn't_ crashed by a demon."

 

 

"He's just standing there."

 

 

He is. There's a weird intensity about him -- it -- but despite the skin color he's not giving off the Hulk Smash vibe.

 

 

"I'd better go see," Xander says.

 

 

Suddenly he hears a squeal from Fred. "Lorne!" She hoists her skirts and hurries to the steps leading up. "Oh my god, Lorne!" Her bare feet pound on the wooden steps.

 

 

"She knows him," Henri muses.

 

 

"Lorne, yeah. She's been worried about him. He was involved in that Wolfram &amp; Hart shit. Disappeared."

 

 

They watch Fred barrel into the demon's arms, laughing and whooping.

 

 

"Ever see _The Graduate_?" Henri asks.

 

 

"Oh _ha ha_." He glances around and sees Roger taking Trish's arm, both of them exclaiming delightedly as they head for the stairs. Xander turns back to Henri, clapping him on the shoulder. "Looks like I'd better get up there and meet my new friend-in-law."

 

 

***

 

 

Xander hasn't seen much of Faith during the reception. She sat at the table with Buffy and Thierry and Eddie, Jamie and Joel from the ADC team, but most of the time he spotted her, she wasn't involved in the lively conversation. He only saw her on the dance floor once, and she wasn't going at it with her usual abandon. When he and Fred had made their rounds of the guests, she'd been uncharacteristically subdued.

 

 

After he leaves Fred and Lorne to catch one another up, Xander stands at the railing of the upper deck and gazes down. Party's still in full swing. Dawn's danced the asses off a succession of partners. The band's playing a slow one, so Giles and his date are out there too. Gemma, her name is. Sounds enough like Jenny that Xander wonders if it pings in Giles's memory the way it does in his.

 

 

The sky's beginning to streak with pink. Xander turns his attention to the beach and sees a figure in a long dress, her hair swept upward, standing at the water's edge, strappy shoes dangling from her hand. He heads her way.

 

 

"Faith. Hey."

 

 

She whirls. "Didn't hear you."

 

 

"Sand and surf sounds." He smiles. "Gives even a lummox like me the stealthy ninja feet."

 

 

"Lummox," she repeats. "You don't actually believe half the bullshit you say about yourself, do you?"

 

 

He leaves that one alone. "You're missing the fun."

 

 

"Didn't want to come."

 

 

"So Buffy said. There's absolutely no need to feel awkward."

 

 

She turns a sharp gaze on him. "Why?"

 

 

Xander shrugs. "Things are good in my world. I want to spread the happy, I guess." She's not getting the happy. "C'mon, let's walk a while." He takes the edge of the water.

 

 

"I never said I was sorry about what happened. What I did. Was that why you left Cleveland?"

 

 

"There were a lot of things going into that decision. I felt like I needed to be on my own for a while, and I found work and people that were really good for me. I haven't been in exile."

 

 

"They're in on the big secret."

 

 

"Yeah. Weird, isn't it? One nifty side effect of the Wolfram &amp; Hart disaster."

 

 

"I want to get things right between us."

 

 

"They already are, Faith."

 

 

She shakes her head. "I lost one of the people who tried to save me. Who made me decide to save myself. It's made me think about the others who made that effort."

 

 

"I didn't do much."

 

 

"Bullshit. You came to talk to me when I was runnin' off the rails. And I choked the shit out of you."

 

 

"I didn't handle things right, say the right thing. I was seventeen."

 

 

"No one could have said the right thing. I couldn't hear it. It sank in later, and it meant something. I thought you should know."

 

 

"I'm glad you told me," Xander says. "Now leave the guilt crap behind."

 

 

"I'll work on it."

 

 

"Go back and dance. Night's still young."

 

 

"I will." They turn back toward the beach house. "I'm glad Lorne's here. He's another one who carried me through bad times. I'm gonna sing for him later."

 

 

"What, he gets a serenade and I don't?"

 

 

Faith laughs. "Don't you know? Lorne can read people when they sing. Tell their futures."

 

 

"Huh." He thinks on this as they climb the wooden steps toward the party. There were times he'd have reached for this, longed for reassurance that he wasn't going to turn into his worst nightmare. But he climbs the last of the stairs and sees his bride chatting with Henri and her parents, and he's certain this is as much of his future as he needs to know.

 

 

***

 

 

Most everyone's gone now. The ADC contingent to a hotel down the road before brunch tomorrow and their charter flight back to Seattle. The Sunnydale crowd rented another beach house a few doors down. Fred's parents have stuck around to chat for a while longer. Trish has kicked her shoes off and plopped her feet in Roger's lap. Without the slightest hesitation or even missing a beat in his story of how Trish killed a giant bug demon in LA with a city bus, he begins massaging her feet in his oversized hands.

 

 

Xander's completely charmed by it. The ease and comfort they have between them after all these years of marriage. It's -- well, here's a word he never uses -- lovely. He'd like to think that someday he and Fred will have some ritual between them like this, burnished over the years, both intimate and casual. He hopes he remembers to appreciate it when it comes, something precious and hard-earned--

 

 

He's startled by the sudden appearance of a pair of feet in his own lap. Fred has melted onto the sofa, her head propped on the foofy throw pillows, her toes wiggling in invitation. Xander's hands close loosely around them, uncertain.

 

 

Roger, amused, advises, "Let the ooze be your guide."

 

 

Xander's hands fly open. "There's ooze?"

 

 

"Ooh," Trish says, by way of demonstration.

 

 

"Oh," Xander says, relieved. "Oohs." He works at the balls of her feet with his thumbs.

 

 

"Oooh," Fred says. The quality of her oooh is markedly different from her mother's. "_Oh._" Abruptly she withdraws her feet and stands. "Mom, Dad, you must be exhausted. You can find your way to Rupert's beach house, can't you?"

 

 

"I've been wondering when you two would give us the bum's rush," Roger says. He gives Trish's foot a last squeeze and they rise. "We'll see you at brunch tomorrow."

 

 

"Don't let the screen door hit you," Fred says.

 

 

Her mother pats her cheek.

 

 

Xander slips an arm around Fred. "Goodnight, Mr. and--"

 

 

"Roger and Trish," they tell him in unison.

 

 

"Or Mom and Dad," Roger adds. "Whichever's comfortable."

 

_Mom and Dad._ It sounds strange to Xander, imagining it falling from his own lips. But he just might get used to it.


End file.
